Black Wolves and a Magnolia
by Gillette-x
Summary: AU. Non-Zombie. Noir. 1950. An investigator receives the task of watching over an unlikely woman. "Every night this nameless flower blossoms for him, showing herself in all her exotic beauty; and he bears witness to it, his want for her spreading like wildfire." Dixonne.
1. I - Your Sweetheart is Safe in my Hands

_A/N: I've been watching a shit ton of film Noirs in this last time. And something about this couple makes it the perfect vessel for all my Noir fantasies._

 _Trying to make it as cynical, dark, erotic, glamurous and nostalgic as possible. And hope you enjoy._

 _This is Kind of a Neo-noirish fic, since it kinda has a happy ending._

* * *

 **I. Your Sweetheart is Safe in my Hands**

Daryl Dixon resists the urge to tap his fingers on the desk, while Rick and him go over the plan for the tenth time this evening.

His pal seems weirdly invested; Daryl can't help but wonder…

"Your priority is this woman's safety." _I got that the first time_. "It is your only mission…" _I know._ "It sounds way too easy for someone like you…" _Because it is._ "But things can always go wrong." _Things almost always go wrong._

And he almost always pulls them out of the shithole. Why should this time be any fucking different?

"Rick, I get it." He huffs impatiently. "It ain' even that difficult or risky a mission."

His boss throws him one of his signature sideway glances that at some point intimidated the crap out of him, but after so long they've kinda lost their effect.

"It is never a bad idea to prevent possible failures from the start, am I right Dixon?" Dixon. The mention of his last name coming from Rick amuses him. He rarely uses it anymore. Daryl takes out an aluminium case and opens it, taking a cigarette out. He offers the case to his boss, but he refuses.

"There ain' no prevention tactics we haven't checked and re-checked already. The plan's pretty solid. Yer just repeatin' it over and over like I'm some dumb hillbilly who won' get it." His boss's shoulders relax a little. Daryl lights the cigarette, eyeing him doubtfully. "Can I ask ya somethin'? She important to ya?"

The icy glare he receives tells him he should've kept his mouth shut.

"None of your business."

"Yer right, forgive me." Daryl sighs. "Do ya trust me?"

"More than any other agent."

"Then stop worrying. Yer sweetheart's safe in my hands."

* * *

 _You might wanna listen to:_

 _Burning Desire - Lana del Rey_

 _or_

 _Sixteen Tons - Tenesee Ernie Ford_


	2. II - Lone Wolfs Musings

_A/N: As I said before, its a fic composed of_ _drabbles so it will have short chapters. My bad. Wish my ideas didn't come to me in such short scenes._

* * *

 **II. Lone Wolf's Musings**

Security-missions usually give him plenty of time to think. Too much time in fact. For him it is as much a blessing as it is a curse. He's a man of action, not rationality. And so when he comes face to face with the silence and calm of non-extreme situations he finds himself at a loss.

At times like this all the things he's tried to bury deep inside himself come to the surface. His past, his fucked up personal life, his annoying feelings…

He distracts himself by taking a look at the picture of his new target, if he can call her that: A good looking woman, 35, dark skin and even darker eyes, lovely figure. If she is, as he suspects, one of Rick's former sweethearts, he definitely knows how to pick them.

His friend isn't exactly a ladiesman, but all the women he's had have been eye candy. From his ex-wife Lori to Jessie and now this one: Michonne. Rick has the looks; he's got game. Something Daryl completely lacks.

The best woman he ever got was Carol. That lovely Cherokee rose… he still misses her like a fool.

Where is she now? Has she found someone else? Does she still think of him?

His grim train of thought is thankfully interrupted by a change of tone in the conversation he's vaguely listening to. Just as he's always suspected, talks between lawyers are full of college-educated gibberish. For an illiterate hick like him, trying to understand it is like hunting for buffalos in Chicago. From what he gathers the woman Michonne's talking to seems to have betrayed her and refuses to admit it. The source of the betrayal seems to be a man.

 _Who would've guessed?_

There's no sign of threats however. Just the obvious hurt in his target's voice.

This relationship was important to her.

The discussion dies quickly and both voices grow silent. The sound of slow steps and a bang on the door tells him one of them has retired. A few minutes later he hears the voice of the second woman talking on the phone.

"Philip… it's Andrea. I tried talking her out of it, she won't give up on the investigation." Philip; the name sounds familiar. Investigation… It can't be…

 _Guess the betrayal was real._

Is this why Rick thinks Michonne is in danger? If yes, they are in way too deep water. Maybe he's underestimated this case.

He has an urge to keep on listening, but he's just spotted the black woman coming out of the building he's watching, long legs in heels firmly walking down the street towards a Cadillac.

 _Your priority is to protect her._

So he turns the microphone off and prepares to follow her.

* * *

 _Until we go down - Ruelle_


	3. III - Late Blooming Flower

_A/N: I think it's kinda clear but I don't own Walking Dead. Or Casablanca_

 _The femme fatale was a popular trope of the Noir. And some of my favourite film-heroines of all times are femme fatales. We tend to see femme fatales as villainous archetypes nowadays, but the film Noir is one of the genres that refused to portray them in that way. Femme fatales are intriguing and amazing characters, oftentimes tortured souls with ulterior motives. My favourite femme fatale from a Neo-Noir film is Evelyn from Chinatown._

 _Michonne is not generally considered a femme fatale cause she doesn't use sex as a weapon. But she's seductive and determined nonetheless._

 _ _She's going to be much more of a femme fatale in my fic.__

* * *

 **III. Late Blooming Flower**

She knows this feeling of exhaustion all too well. It is not the typical exhaustion after a long day of work, the one she can shake off with a bath and a few hours of sleep. This exhaustion is stronger. She's tired of this situation, of her loneliness; of life… she wishes she was one of those people who just give up. Sadly for her, she's the kind of person who keeps on going until her back breaks. And she has to. She has no right to walk away from this. She's still there after all.

After all…

Andrea's betrayal has hit her like a slap to the face. They were in this together, they were colleagues.

Friends.

How stupidly attached she got to the blonde. She cared about her, she was the one who got invested. And now Andrea is gone, just like…

 _Stop. Now. This is not the time._

She has to keep her shit together; continue the investigation; protect Andrea from Philip, even if she doesn't want her to.

She looks through the rear-view mirror once more and sees nothing. But she knows she's being followed, she recognized the car parked on the front building when she exited. If these are Philip's men, they are bloody sneaky.

 _No amateurs. He's smart._

She considers whether she should try and lose them, but if they are, indeed, good hitmen, they must already know where she lives. Michonne sighs. A revolver is waiting next to her. Five bullets; she'll make them count. Philip is definitely messing with the wrong woman.

She arrives home and everything seems calm: No one following her, no sign of the car, no forced locks.

 _Maybe I'm just being paranoid._

The apartment is dark and silent when she enters, grim memories of better days echoing across its emptiness.

She turns on the lights and steps on a piece of paper neatly folded lying on the floor. Frowning, she picks it up and unfolds it. It's a message. From someone whose handwriting she knows well.

Danger ahead.

Watching over you, hope you don't mind.

Yours Always.

RG

"That fool."

This explains everything. Great, she's got her not so old flame, who already has enough bullshit in his life, worrying over her. She should've seen it coming. Rick is Rick after all. What else could possibly go wrong now?

She quickly shuffles through her purse in search of the lighter, walks onto the kitchen sink and sets the note on fire. She watches it burn, consumed in her thoughts.

 _Danger ahead._

 _Hope you don't mind._

 _Yours always._

"Mine. Of course." She mumbles bitterly.

 _If only that was true, Mr. Grimes._

Sour memories of their affair come back; it was a lovely and yet very confusing time in her life. And she knows she screwed it. She had just lost a son and a husband, Rick couldn't expect...

If only he would let her be now. It should be illegal to lead a woman on in this way. Worst part is he isn't even conscious he's doing it.

In his mind, he's just protecting a friend. In his mind, she doesn't love him anymore.

 _Of all the ruined lives in all the cities in all the world, he had to walk into mine._

He's probably watching her right now. Should she let him know how unwelcome he is? It wouldn't make a difference anyway. She decides it's not worth her time. Rick can do whatever the hell he pleases. She's got more important things to worry about.

After a meagre supper of the leftover yogurt she's found in the fridge, she's ready for a much needed sleep. Or what she can get from it before the night terrors kick in.

As she enters the bedroom and turns the lights on a sudden idea pops in her mind.

Is he watching her himself or did he send another agent to do it for him?

It's probably him. One thing she knows about having been Rick's woman is that he never puts his women in the hands of strangers. The one time he did, it cost him his wife.

Michonne smirks mischievously. If Rick is going to be a hawk around her, she at least has the right to give him a hard time.

She removes her earrings and necklace and places them on the dressing table. The curtains are left open as she sits on the edge of the bed, taking her heels off. Careful not to look towards the window, she starts to unbutton her blouse. The silk slides down her shoulders and she can almost feel a pair of eyes watching her.

Across the street, in a dark room with a direct view to hers, blue eyes indeed widen at the sight of her exposed skin. The man in the shadows breathes heavily, incapable of looking away.

* * *

 _The Man I love - Lana del Rey_


	4. IV - Sleepless Spectator

_A/N: Thanks QuasiOuster, big fan of your stories :)._

* * *

 **IV. Sleepless Spectator**

 _He sits on the edge of the bed and watches, his eyes follow the trail of naked skin inch by inch as her robe descends down her shoulders, her back and her waist. Her magnificent figure in white lace underwear; the faint smell of channel on her skin..._

 _His hand touches her ever so gently, fingers travelling down her back towards the clasp of her bra, snapping it open._

 _She turns to look at him…_

 _And the gun in her hand is the last thing he sees._

 _Bang!_

Daryl jumps awake after two hours of sleep. He's exhausted, which is unusual, given that his biological clock is used to worse sleeping schedules. He takes a look through his binoculars at the window of the apartment across the street. The dim lights and the moon make it possible to behold the female figure sprawled across the bed. Her lace night gown does nothing to hide the perfect curves of her body, and the contrast of her dark skin against the white sheets adds an almost artistic appeal to the sensuality of the scene.

Pictures of her nakedness swim across his memory; still fresh, as it was just four hours ago that he saw her come out of the bathroom wrapped in a bathrobe she quickly discarded to the floor.

 _She's getting bolder._

He frowns at his own lack of decency. This woman isn't even conscious he's watching her. He's clearly the perverted ogler here. And it's not like he's not tried to respect her privacy by any means possible, it's just that he's failed shamelessly at it. He's weak, he knows: a weak excuse of a gentleman.

It is too much of a coincidence, however, that she never closes the curtains; that her moves seem too slow and calculated to be deliberate; that her body contours in ways that give him the best perspective of her attributes. Is this woman prone to be this lewd? Is she a natural born seductress?

Daryl rubs his eyes with his free hand, trying to dissipate the images before they lead to inappropriate fantasies. The eroticism of this mission is making it more difficult than it needs to be. It's been three days since it begun and from the first night his strength has started to falter. He blames it all on the damn lack of sleep. It's too difficult for him to rest properly after this woman's teasing leaves him wired every night. And the times he manages to get a hold on himself and relax, he cannot prevent his dreams from rewinding back to those moments and add more intense pictures of his own hands navigating that silky skin of hers.

What would Rick say if he saw him like this? All hot and bothered by a woman who used to be his? A woman whose relationship to Daryl is and will always be non-existent?

He's broken tons of rules during his life; crossed the line several times. But when it comes to ladies he's always been guarded. So guarded, in fact, he never even knew what it was like to have a lover until he met Carol.

And his Cherokee rose, the only woman ever capable of breaking through his walls, only ended up proving his fears true.

Women deserve better, much better than him.

Ever since her, he's had that harsh lesson painfully branded on his skin. Along with another he's clearly not remembering right now.

 _As little as possible._

He knows the danger, and he's afraid that this woman, this temptress he doesn't know, might make him cross that line. There is a vicious intimacy to all this that he can't quite explain.

Every night this nameless flower blossoms for him, showing herself in all her exotic beauty; and he bears witness to it, his want for her spreading like wildfire.

His eyes fly back to the window as a sudden move catches his attention. The woman's violent jolt puts him on his guard, but there's no sign of forceful entry or a surprise attack in any of the other windows of her apartment. Daryl sighs with relief as he watches the woman sit up on the bed, bringing her legs to her chest and her hands to her head. He can make out her soft trembling.

 _Night terrors._

And she looks quite distraught by them. It is not the first time he sees her like this. Makes him wonder…

She walks slowly towards the window and opens it, leaning against its frame; the night must be quite cold, but she seems not to notice. He can almost guess the tears falling from her eyes. He wishes he could reach over and brush them away. He hates to see women cry.

Then it happens. She turns her head towards his window and stares. It startles him. Her eyes seem to watch him, peeking through the blinds. She's not grazing over, not lost in her thoughts. She's staring. And a thought falls on him like a bucket of cold water.

She knows he's watching her.

* * *

 _Temptress - IAMEVE_


	5. V - Amongst the Bad Weeds

_A/N: Been taking quite a while to draft the last chapters to this story. My computer broke, such is my luck. So I'm using the ones at the university XD. Up until now I have hardly 26, but they may become 27 or 28 when I get there. Nobody knows. Anyways, hope you're enjoying. And sorry if the romance seems a bit slow. It is a slow burn after all and it kinda has to take a back-seat to the plot, so don't expect Daryl and Michonne to jump each other's bones just yet._

* * *

 **V. Amongst the Bad Weeds**

"Does she know she's being watched?"

Rick frowns at his question, confused.

"What makes you say that?" Daryl lights his third cigarette and catches the worry plastered on his boss's face. He knows he hasn't smoked this much since his brother's disappearance.

But ever since that night his stress levels have gone up and his tiredness is not making the situation any better.

"Just curious. She seems to know."

"Really?" Rick's tone isn't half as surprised as Daryl expected it to be and it makes him narrow his eyes. "Well, she's smart enough to have figured it out. I was half expecting her to."

"U-huh. And yer ok with that?"

His friend's lack of surprise has thrown him off his guard. For a man who's been analysing this plan for days looking for every single way to make it as invincible as possible, this would generally be a major fuck up.

But maybe Rick knows something he doesn't. Maybe he's talked to Michonne and let her know, in which case, what the fuck is happening? And why does Rick hide this from him?

His boss's excuse is almost believable.

"If she has any common sense, which I know she does, she already knows she's in a dangerous situation; which means she has eyes watching her all over this place."

"The _Governor's_ eyes." A certain heaviness fills the air by the mention of the name. Rick nods.

"We are the least of her worries right now. We mean her no harm."

"That's clear for us, alright. But it might scare her away."

"Look, I'll talk to her. Explain what's going on. You just leave that to me and keep doing your job."

His boss has his eyes fixed on his glass of scotch. Daryl doubts he finds anything interesting in the icy liquid. He knows that expression; he's hiding something from him.

 _Leave that to him, huh?_

He's trying to keep him as far away from her as possible. Block any kind of confrontation between them.

If he's so mistrusting, why did he send him in the first place?

"Why did ya send me anyways? Why not do it yerself?"

The question makes Rick uncomfortable, but Daryl needs to know. He has enough difficulties with this mission. He at least deserves an explanation.

"She's… quite a woman." Rick finishes his glass and pours himself some more.

"Meaning?"

"Michonne came to me two years ago, a capable agent with a lust for revenge."

"An agent?" Rick nods.

"She was involved in the chase of criminal-gangs. She lost her son and husband because of that."

"She's a black woman." Daryl retorts. Rick throws him a murderous look.

"And no one ever lets her forget that. Trust me."

"Didn' mean it that way, I just… she musta gotten a lot of bullshit in the police department."

"She did. But she is strong."

"Quite a woman, huh?" Silence. "So, what happened between you two?"

"What usually happens between a lonely man and a lonely woman who spend too much time together and fancy each other?" The irony of Rick's question is not lost on him. "You can guess how that went. I had lost my wife, was worried about my children. I needed the comfort of a woman's arms. But Michonne was not the right woman. And I was selfish to demand that of her. She had just lost her family, she wasn't ready to move on."

Daryl's cigarette lies forgotten between his fingers and the ashtray. He watches his friend lost in his memories of a woman who slipped through his hands; a wrecked woman.

Something suddenly dawns on him:

He knows why she never closes the curtains. She thinks Rick is watching her. If she only knew…

"That's quite a story, pal. Still don' answer my question." Rick sighs.

"I don't want to get too involved with her. The last time I did, I ended up falling for her. And falling for such a dame is a big mistake."

"It don' look like that big a mistake." The words leave his mouth and immediately the temperature in the room seems to drop. A cutting silence lingers and Daryl can feel his boss's eyes on him.

"No. Not in the slightest. But it is." Rick's tone has changed from melancholic to icy in just a second. Daryl swallows. He doesn't want to fight over a woman he clearly has no chance of ever getting. "She's the one keeping you up, isn't she?"

"Kinda. Hard to ignore, yer sweetheart."

"Prettiest magnolia amongst the bad weeds."

Magnolia. That's it. The name of the flower he's had on the tip of his tongue for so long. She's a magnolia; a striking, enticing, mysterious beauty.

Rick's eyes are questioning when he meets them.

"Ya still into her?"

"Why? You like her?" The answer is unnecessary. Daryl shrugs.

"Don' even know her." But that's a lie.

He's been watching her for long; he knows things about her. Details Rick might not even remember about her body, her way of speaking and her habits. He knows she's intelligent and wildly determined, that she values her friends and hates criminals with passion. He knows she's lost quite a lot, he knows her nightmares keep her awake at night. He knows she loves cheese and chocolate and that her favourite colour is magenta, which suits her nicely but she never wears in public. He knows she loves to read. He knows she's guarded and solitary, just like him, and that beneath her thick walls she craves for love.

"You're better off that way. She's broken. More broken than you realize. More broken than you can handle."

There's a silent threat in Rick's voice.

 _Jealousy._

Daryl snorts at that.

He's got nothing to worry about. A woman like her is way out of his league.

If he were to come face to face with her, what would he say anyway? What could he do that was smart or charming enough that would draw her to him the way she draws him to her?

No. He'll keep watching her from the shadows; be that fly on the wall she will never notice; looking from afar as every night, completely unaware of his existence, her beauty unwinds.

And if she now knows, if she thinks it is Rick and not him the one spying on her through the blinds, that's ok with him.

"When it comes to women, Rick, I've learned my lesson."

* * *

 _Falling in Love Again - Christina Aguilera_


	6. VI - The Heat of the Night

_A/N: Oh, god! I got QuasiOuster and Jacqi Kennedy reading my fic and that makes me so excited! Big fan of ya guys!_

* * *

 **VI. The Heat of the Night**

The night is darker than usual and the fog on the road is not making driving easier. Michonne is tired and frightened at the same time.

She has a bad feeling about something.

Maybe it is just her stress. Her evidence on her case against Blake is miserable at best. At worst non-existent.

Andrea's betrayal really managed to fuck her over this time. She was her best source of information and having her gone has cost her.

Philip definitely knew what he was doing when he seduced Blondie.

 _Ass._

This one's smart. He covers his tracks well. And if she doesn't find a way to outsmart him soon she might not just lose this case, but her life.

Michonne sighs, her eyes fixed on the road. When suddenly a shadow coming ahead of her catches her attention.

"Shit!"

She manages to stop the car before it crashes against the one blocking the road. Gunshots echo too close to her ears and she ducks, reaching for the revolver on the passenger seat.

She's not fast enough. Someone opens the door and drags her through her feet to the pavement of the road. She screams.

Another gushot echoes in the air and one of the men holding her goes down. The second man turns around just as a figure lunges against him, making him loose his hold on her. Michonne uses the distraction to run away, two other men get out of the car and start following her. Her shaking hand shuffles through her pocket until it finds what its looking for.

The knife cuts the skin of her palm as she stops mid-air and plunges it into the first man's jugular. His scream is short lived and muffled. She takes the knife out and lunges towards the second man, deviates the gun he's just taken out and trespasses his eye with the blade.

Bang!

The silly gunshot against the earth makes her wince. Unnecessary noise. The henchman wriggles like a slaughtered chicken as he falls to his knees and then to the floor.

From the corner of her eye she sees a silhouette standing up a few meters away. Instinctively she grabs the fallen revolver, but then she notices his hands covered in blood and the lifeless body of one of the hitmen behind her.

Her saviour.

"Rick?" She mumbles, the gun still pointed at him. The figure shakes his head and comes forward, allowing the street light to show his face to her: A man in his late thirties; dirty blond hair; deep blue eyes; handsome; and definitely not Rick.

Michonne swallows hard as realization strikes. She knows who this man is, and yet, like an idiot, she asks:

"The hell do you want?"

"Nothin' ma'am. I'm just here protectin' ya." His voice is so gentle and respectful in another situation it might have appeased her.

But not this time.

Blue eyes scrutinize her, making her feel naked. His eyes, not Rick's. They've seen enough of her to know exactly what's under these clothes. She feels disgusted, not sure if with him or herself.

She responds to his manners with a cynical snort.

"You're doing a hell of a job around here." She points to the other two men with her head. "If I was a normal civilian, I'd be dead by now."

He scoffs, clearly offended.

"My apologies. Next time I'll throw the other two in yer direction. I'm sure ya can take four at the same time."

"There goes the gentleman."

"So much for being one." He retorts bitterly turning his back on her. Narrowing her eyes at him, she walks towards the man whose eye is still holding her knife.

The gory vision makes her insides turn and suddenly she's not angry anymore.

Holy shit. She could've died here.

A delayed wave of shock swipes over her. She hears the man mutter under his breath; something along the lines of '… have this bitch scolding me for saving her life…' and she realizes he's right.

"I'm sorry." She whimpers with a broken voice. He turns to look at her and she tries to recompose herself. "I'm sorry." She repeats, as normally as possible. "You're right, sir, you saved my life."

He looks at her for a while, before acknowledging the corpses at her feet.

"Ya saved yerself lady." She nods apologetic and crouches next to the corpse, trying to take out the knife. But her strength is now gone. Damn adrenaline. Damn loss of practice. "Let me help with that." The man's hand grases hers as he takes the handle and pulls. The blade gives in with a squirt of blood splashing both of them, making them wince in disgust. He cleans it against his shirt and hands it back to her. She takes it with a 'thank you'. "Let's go."

As they walk towards the cars, he notices something and stops, his hand travelling to the pocket of his shirt.

"Something wrong?"

"Yer hand is bleeding." She looks down at it. He's right, she completely forgot she cut herself.

It is not a deep wound, but it bleeds like a bitch. Figures.

"Here." He offers a handkerchief. "Wrap it up." She takes it and does what he says.

"Thanks again." He just waves it off.

She takes a few seconds to check him. Handsome fellow, with a messy appeal to him: Simple shirt, no vest, tie, coat or fedora.

A worker's outfit.

She's used to investigators being completely different: sharp fellows, sometimes war-veterans, often too high up their noses, with a good education and trying to look better off than they actually are. Even Rick, the least annoying of all, has a certain air of arrogance to him.

This one's unusual. The way he walks awkwardly and looks down when being checked out shows he's the kind of man who doesn't think too high of himself. His accent and way of dressing give his humble background away. And yet his manners…

 _He must be a natural gentleman._

He's quite charming, she realizes.

"Ya ok enough to drive?" He asks after a few moments of her eyeing him in silence. She gazes away, scolding herself inwardly.

"Yes, sir." He gives her a coy smile.

"I'll be right behind ya."

"I'm counting on it." Her tone is cold and she can see his brow furrow.

Does he expect her to act any differently?

The first thing she does that night as soon as she arrives at her apartment is close the courtains.

* * *

 _Lost in Amsterdam - Parov Stelar_


	7. VII - The Devil Looks after His Own

_A/N: Don't own WD. And thanks to my reviewers. All of them :)_

 _ _Word of advice my lovelies. Pulp fiction, aka, Noir, is usually a very amoral style, in which neither the heroes nor the villains are completely good or completely bad. So, if you think the Governor is the only bad guy in the story or if you are sure Michonne is in the right, you haven't been paying attention. These are very gray antiheroes we are dealing with. Part of the reason why I wanted to make this a noir-fic is because if the ambiguity of these characters themselves in the Walking Dead. Neither character in the series, not even Shane or Philip, are completely bad guys, and that's what makes them such good characters. The fact that they are human.__

* * *

 **VII. The Devil Looks after his Own**

He's there, sitting on her chair as she enters the office. She stops dead in her tracks, cursing inwardly for having left her revolver in the car.

"Hello, Mrs Johnson."

"Blake." She answers curtly and walks towards the desk. "That's my seat."

"Of course! My apologies." He gets up and holds the chair for her to sit. She just stands there, looking at him.

"What are you doing here?" He's smiling at her, and she wishes she could just punch his face.

"You have nothing to fear. I just want to talk."

"We have nothing to talk about."

"I think we do. Sit down…"

"No." she says curtly. "Please get out of here before I call security."

Philip's smile is gone from his face and now his expression is unreadable.

"Mrs Johnson, you're being ridiculous. Security let me in here. Why would they throw me out?" His voice is dangerously low. "Even if you called for help, who do you think they would believe?" The woman gulps. He's right. He's a white man, she's a black woman. She's got everything to lose in this situation. "Sit down." Reluctantly, Michonne walks towards the chair and sits.

 _Where is that damned stalker of mine when I need him?_

Maybe he's listening. Maybe she's safer than she feels right now.

She doesn't know.

Philip sits in front of her, across the desk, his eyes never leaving hers.

Philip Blake, otherwise known as the Governor: The leading hand behind the actions of the Woodbury gang. He's responsible for at least sixty murders and extortions in the last five years and directly connected to even worse crimes. His people are everywhere and for a while the corrupted judicial system has tried to avoid convicting him.

Not anymore.

They now got him where they want him. And she won't let him escape this time.

"I'm impressed by your determination, Michonne." Her name in his lips sounds like a jab. "I admire that in people, whether they are men or women. Determination can get you far in life. But it can also destroy you." His hands snatch a picture next to him of her and her husband on their wedding day. "Ain't that right?" When he gets no answer, he just keeps on going. "When I started out as a boy I learned that lesson fast. I learned to watch other hotheads make mistakes and to never repeat them. I learned to be careful, and that's something that's kept me alive all these years. What's helped me climb the ladder."

"I know exactly how you climbed the ladder." He smiles.

"Yes, you do, now do you?" She gulps.

Philip is smarter than most gangsters. He got his position and respect at a very young age, when he singlehandedly killed his bosses. He is not easy to fool and not easy to evade.

The more she learns about him, the more she questions whether she can take him down. She's experienced failure before, and the consequences for it were disastrous.

But now that she has nothing to lose, nothing left to protect, she isn't afraid anymore.

"You are a smart woman. You must be if you went through this whole investigation almost completely by your own. Smart people are usually careful. They understand the pragmatism of situations. They… learn from former mistakes." He accentuates those last words _._

"Yes. They do." she shoots back.

"Now, you may think you know what you're dealing with. But believe me, you don't." She snorts. "Why is that funny?" No answer. "Exactly what do you think you know about me?"

"I know enough. And soon the court will too."

"You sound so sure; seems like the betrayal of one of your most reliable sources hasn't affected your case at all." She jolts up and stares down at him, her hands balled in fists. "Now, now, my dear; no need to get violent with me. Andrea made her choice. I had nothing to do with it, you can take my word on that."

 _I won't take your word on anything._

"You're going down."

"Stubborn, are we?" He bites the inside of his mouth, annoyed. "I'll make it easier for you. You want money? No? What about Andrea's safety? Or yours for that matter?" The tension in the room is increasing by the second. "You know me. You know what I'm capable of. You're risking too much, Mrs Johnson. It is simple. Drop the case, say you're frightened, say you're pregnant, whatever helps. And I'll leave you alone."

"You can't scare me." She leans on the desk, just a few centimetres from his face. "You're going down, Philip. That's final. Now, get out of my office."

She straightens up and walks around the desk towards the door. But before she can reach it a hand grabs her arm. She bats it off and takes her knife out, pointing it at his face. His hand hits hers with so much force the knife goes flying. Her wrist is firmly grasped between his fingers and he comes very close to her face.

"Listen here, honey, I'm giving you a chance to walk out of this unharmed. It's something I don't give to everyone. And it's mostly because I like the way that ass of yours moves when you walk."

"You filthy pig." He laughs.

"One of the many you've encountered, slut. What? You expect me to believe a woman, a nigger, got this position in the court without sleeping around? Would you like me to ask mister Grimes?" He rejoices in her shocked expression. "Yes, babe, I know all there is to know about you. Andrea tells me wonders in bed. All women are the same: Prostitutes for favours. But I won't let a jezebel like you take me down, you understand?"

A slap lands on his cheek, making him turn his head. He takes a deep breath and for a few seconds the time around them seems to slow down.

Then it comes back, full force, as his hand connects with her left cheek, throwing her against the desk. She tries to get up, only to have him pin her helplessly against the wood. One hand closes firmly around her throat while the other holds her hands together. She can't move.

"Last night was just a warning by the way. You think that hick of yours can protect you from me? You are wrong. Not even Grimes himself will be able to protect you from me. From what I plan on doing to you."

He presses himself against her, between her legs, and she wants to gag. Her left cheek is burning and her eyes are starting to water. After moments that seem like an eternity, he finally gets off her, and she slides to the floor.

"That's right. Cry, little bitch. That's nothing compared to what might happen if you don't leave me the hell alone." His hands straighten his now messed up hair and clean the blood off his lip. "And you hit like a little girl."

 **-o-**

Two men stop him as he makes his way to the door. Very big men in tailored suits that don't fit them at all.

The Governor's men.

"Where ya goin pal?"

"Let me through."

"The babe in the office's busy."

"I'd like to see fer myself." He tries to move forward but the second man pushes him back violently.

"Didn' ya hear? She's busy."

Daryl takes a step forward, reaching under his coat, and both men do the same. At that moment the door behind them swings open and a man walks out. He has a messed up appearance, like he's just walked away from a fight.

"Leave him be. Let's go." Both men follow their leader like obedient dogs.

The Governor ignores Daryl's icy glare following him.

He storms inside the room, guessing the worst, only to find the woman lying on the floor, cleaning her tears with the back of her hand. A mix of relief and dread washes over him.

 _I should've gotten here sooner._

What could he have done anyways? Get shot? Get his ass kicked? Dealing with Gangsters is not like having a bar-fight.

He walks towards her and helps her get up. She eyes him up and down, but doesn't push him away.

"I'm fine. He just wanted to scare me." She says, dismissive.

His hand flies to her chin, turning her head towards hers so that he can see. Her cheek is starting to darken.

 _He hit her. That son of a bitch._

"He did more than scare ya. Did he hurt'ya somewhere else?" She shakes her head. "I'll take ya home."

"No, leave it. I'm fine and I got work to do." She scurries away from him and sits on the chair. He eyes her doubfully, not wanting to leave her alone.

He feels if he does she might get attacked again.

After a moment of holding her head between her hands she turns to him.

"You have a cigarrette?" She asks him. He schuffles through his pocket, searching for his case, takes it out and takes a cigarette he himself lightens and gives her. She takes it. "I'm ok now. They won't come back. You can leave."

She wants him away from her.

Self preservation or just natural disdain for him? He guesses it's a little bit of both. After a moment of unmoving silence, he finally walks out and closes the door to her office, giving her the pricacy she needs.

* * *

 _Everybody Wants to Rule the World - Lorde_


	8. VIII - Throw me to the Wolves

_A/N: Thanks Quasi for making me aware of my mistake. Guess I'll have to edit that chapter. I tend to rush chapters that have a lot of action, but Devil Looks after its Own in particular was difficult to draft and even more difficult to edit. I rewrote it three times._

 _I hope the dark mood is better used in this chapter._

* * *

 **VIII. Throw me to the Wolves**

Her head breaks the surface of the water when she can't hold any longer. She takes a deep breath, filling her lungs with fresh air, wondering how so many women can commit suicide by drowning. It must be a horrible death.

She takes a minute to reflect on why she's just felt the need to do this while taking a bath. She's supposed to be relaxing, not putting herself in a more dangerous situation than she is in already.

Truth is, she can't relax anymore.

She feels drowned, suffocated, just like she felt when holding her breath underwater a few seconds ago.

This operation, her situation, her whole life is going to shit. Slowly sinking down like a ship with too many holes.

She can hear Mike's cynical voice scolding her.

 _I told you so._

She forces it to shut up.

Incapable of staying in the water a second longer, she gets out. When she goes back to her bedroom, wrapping her bathrobe around her, the first thing she sees are the closed curtains in front of her and dread burns the back of her mind at remembering that at some point she used to have them wide open for _him_ to see.

Who the hell is he anyways? And why did Rick send him to do this and didn't do it himself? Is that how little she meant to him? Was she just an exchangeable, forgettable booty call he doesn't give a shit about anymore?

She remembers just how concerned he looked this morning, as he held her chin with his hand, those blue eyes checking her face. It must've been the shock after what happened that kept her static in her place instead of just pushing him away. She winces at that. She let him touch her.

The ringing of the phone snaps her out of her sorrowful thoughts. Who could it be at this late hours?

Checking that her body is completely covered by the bathrobe, she goes out of the bedroom straight towards the phone and picks it up.

"Hello?"

"You're Andrea's friend from outside, aren't you?" Michonne's eyes widen like plates and the hand that holds the phone to her ear starts to tremble.

"How do you...?"

"Listen to me, cause I will not repeat this. I know you're building a case against Philip Blake and that you have little to no evidence against him. It's happened before, you know? Countless times countless prosecutors tried to do the same you are trying. They failed and ended up six feet underground." Michonne takes a deep breath. Is this some kind of threat against her? Cause she's had enough with one attempt at murder she's still recovering from. "But I've got reason to believe you might be the lucky one."

She furrows her brow at that.

"What?"

"I've got documents, lady. Incriminating documents. Enough proof to put under the court's noses so that they have no choice but to take Philip down."

"Who are you?"

"That's not important, trust me, I'll be dead long before you get here. All you need to know is I am Andrea's friend. I tried to help her out of this but I failed, and now the Governor has her hostage and the only way to rescue her is if you help her out." Andrea. A hostage. Michonne's heart sinks. Her friend is in danger. Yet another person in this god-forsaken world she might lose. "So, please, I know you have every reason to mistrust me, but please, come here."

"Where?" He gives her a number and the name of a street she vaguely takes note of in her mind.

"The documents are inside a black briefcase behind my desk. You got half an hour before they get here. Hurry!"

The line goes dead. Breathing heavily, Michonne runs back to her bedroom and discards her robe, putting on her underwear, a wife-beater and a pair of men's pants she holds to her slim waist with suspenders and a belt. She opens a drawer and takes out a revolver she straps to her waist, snatches a coat and a fedora, puts on a pair of shoes, takes the keys to her car and exits through the door.

The night is moonless and foggy.

 _Such is my good luck._ She thinks, trembling when the cold breeze sneaks under the thin fabric of her wifebeater.

As she walks towards her Cadillac she hears the vague sound of a door opening and closing and heavy footsteps behind her.

He's not done following her everywhere she goes. It makes her extremely uncomfortable. The footsteps approach and suddenly a hand is grabbing her arm and she's jerking away violently.

"The hell do you think you are?!" She snaps at him. He puts his arms up and steps back a little, eyeing her up and down like she was some alien. "What? Never seen a woman wearing your pants for you?" She spits before turning her back to him.

"Where ya goin'?" She doesn't respond. "Michonne!"

It's the first time she hears her name coming from him. He sounds extremely pissed. She opens the door to her Cadillac.

"You're very welcome to follow me around. Ain't that what you do all day anyways?!"

"Ya think I do it fer fun?!" He snaps back. She throws him an icy glare before stepping inside the car and closing the door. She can hear his faint "Crazy bitch!" and closes her knuckles hard against the steering wheel.

"Nosy pervert." Her conscience scolds her immediately, throwing the reality on her face like a slap. _It's not his fault you like to show yourself naked to men behind blinds. Whore._

Clenching her jaw she turns on the engine and starts driving as fast as possible. She can see the lights of his car following close behind and curses inwardly.

They near the house she's looking for and she quickly parks her car in a nearby ally and gets out. Her revolver is strapped to the band of her waist, just in case. Her shadow parks his car right behind her and follows her footsteps as close as possible.

"Look, I don' wanna upset ya, but it's the middle of the night and from the expression ya had when ya got that phone-call I'm guessing nothin' good came out of it." Oh, yeah. For a second she forgot he's aware of her every move. She wishes she could just punch him. "Why are we here?"

She could tell him to butt out of her business but that wouldn't help the situation in the slightest. Instead she just turns to him with a look of determination.

"You got a revolver or something?" He stops dead in his tracks.

"Yeah? Why?"

"You hold onto it, we might need it." Before he can stop her she pushes the door with the house number the mysterious man gave her and is surprised and scared to find it's open. Either someone is already in here or this guy left it unlocked on purpose.

Michonne and her protector look at each other and in silent agreement both take out their revolvers. Their shadows creep silently down the hallway as they walk.

There's music playing in the background, a dim light peeking through the half-opened door in front of them. A hand touches her shoulder gently. Michonne turns to the man next to her and he signals for her to stay behind as he goes in front of her and pushes the door open, revolver aimed at any possible attackers. He lowers it at the sight of something in front of him. Michonne pokes her head through the open door and sees it too.

Sitting on the armchair in front of them, next to a table holding an old gramophone that's playing the same tune over and over, is a bloody corpse with an exploded head. The revolver he used to kill himself is still firmly wrapped between his fingers.

Michonne looks away, fighting the urge to puke. This is the second time she's seen this much blood since her days in the Police Department and her stomach has grown unacostumed to it.

"I need to find that briefcase." She whispers to herself, remembering why she's here, dealing with this, in the first place. Keeping her eyes away from the armchair, she passes Daryl, whose eyes are still fixed in the gory vision in front of him, and heads towards the next door she sees. She opens it slowly, revolver high in her hand, and as she takes a look inside the first thing she spots is the desk the man told her about.

That's when she hears it, the sound of a car pulling over. Suddenly Daryl is running towards her.

"It's them. We need to get outta here, now!" He grabs her arm, but she wrenches free, shaking her head.

"I need to find that briefcase." She repeats stubbornly, stepping into the room.

"Don't be ridiculous! They find us here, we are…"

"He has Andrea! If I don't get this documents she's dead!" She barks as silently as possible. His eyes widen in understanding. The street door is opening, they both turn their heads around towards the sound. Daryl's hand pushes her inside the room urgently.

"Go ahead. Close the door, ya hear anythin' ya don' come in here, ya go out through the window." Michonne stares at him for a second, before she sound of footsteps makes her obey.

She closes the door silently and crawls towards the desk, her eyes trying to make out the silhouettes in the semi-darkness. She spots it immediately, a black leather briefcase with the initials M.M printed on its side. Just as she takes it out a strong bang on the door, like the sound of a body colliding against it, makes her back down and press herself against the wall.

 _What the hell is going on out there?_

She peaks through the keyhole and sees two shadows wrestling silently in the other room. One of them too big and muscular to be that of her protector, punches the smaller shadow in the face and throws him to the floor. Just as the smaller man tries to get up the hick gives him a hard kick in the ribs that shoves him against the armchair. Michonne winces and moves away from the door, clutching the briefcase in her arms. If it weren't for the possibility of more men being outside, she could use her revolver; but as it is, if the mob hears a gunshot they will come in and screw them over. And by the look of it her protector isn't going to win this fight.

 _Priorities, woman. Get out of here while you can._ She has the briefcase, she could easily sneak out the window and run around until she reaches the main road or her Cadillac on the other side.

This is what the man told her to do, isn't it?

She looks towards the window and then back to the door.

She can't leave him in here.

"Fuck this." She mumbles. She looks around for a silent weapon she can use and sees the broken cable of the phone laying at her feet. She picks it up, careful not to let go of the briefcase and opens the door silently, creeping behind the two figures on the floor.

The big hick is too busy strangling the smaller man to notice her until it is too late and she's already wrapped the cable around his neck, tightening her hold on it as if her life depended on it. His first reaction is reaching towards his neck and pulling from the cable, and it makes it easier for her to suffocate him. She drags him away from the weak figure of her protector, her hands ache from the pressure and she feels the cut in her palm open again. She holds the cable tight until the figure under her stops moving and then she lets go and the dead man falls to the floor with a 'thud'.

Her protector's already up and pushing her through the door of the room and out of the window. She takes the time to grab the briefcase she let go of during the strangling as sounds of more people entering, screams and gunshots resonate in her ears. Her mind is a complete blur that only understands a simple order from her brain: Run. She checks to see that she's still holding the briefcase while the man in front of her grabs her wrist and guides her through the dark alleys.

Next she knows she's driving her Cadillac full speed through the streets, her blood dampening the steering wheel.

* * *

 _Shoot him Down - Alice Francis_

 _This song is not half as grim as it should be for a chapter like this. But I'll be damned if it doesn't inspire the crap out of me. You can tell if you listen closely to the lyrics. Hell yeah, electro-swing, you've made this fic much easier to write than I first thought it would be. Thanks for that._


	9. IX - Blood, Whiskey and Smoke

_A/N: I don't own Walking Dead :)_

* * *

 **IX. Blood, Whiskey and Smoke**

He parks his car behind hers and gets out. His side is killing him. The bloody hick punched him there, he remembers; right before trying to strangle him.

That was a close one. This woman has thrown herself into the fire with this goose chase for the Governor. And if she didn't realize it then, she should now. Chances are, however, that she's way too fierce and stubborn to back down.

 _Just when I thought this mission couldn't get any more difficult._

All he wants right now is to get to his room across the street, maybe take a shower, see to his side and jump into bed for a few hours. He deserves it and no amount of nakedness from this dame is going to prevent it anyways. Since that faithful night in which his cover was blown she's closed the curtains every time she gets home.

After all, he's not her beloved Rick and she now knows that.

He watches her descend from her car. She seems to be alright, only her right hand is covered in blood.

"Ya better see to that cut." He comments, remembering she still has his handkerchief.

"I will. Thank you." He has to start counting all the times this woman has thanked him in the last two days. Not that he has anything against that. It is infinitely better than her hostility. "Will there be any trouble tomorrow for what happened?"

"Rick'll take care a' that." At the mention of the name sorrow crosses her features. Daryl paces awkwardly before giving her a nod.

"Good night, ma'am." As he turns his back to her he hears her whisper something. "Pardon?"

"I said your eye is swollen."

Yeah, he can feel it.

"It's nothin'." She evaluates him with her dark eyes.

"Come inside. I have a first-aid kit." The request surprises him, but Michonne seems determined. "I insist."

They walk up the stairs in silence. As she opens the door and leads him into the apartment he has that strange feeling of déjà vu. Though he's never really been in it, he knows the place.

"I still don't know your name." He hears her say.

"Daryl." Michonne turns to him.

"Dixon?"

"The one and only."

"Rick's friend from the war." She smiles enigmatically. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Is that right?" Rick doesn't tell everyone about him. He must've trusted her quite a lot. Jessie herself had no idea who he was when she met him once.

 _Just how much did he love this damn lady?_

She leaves him seated next to the table while she goes inside the bedroom. Time after she comes back, her good hand carrying a metallic red box. The hurt one is now bandaged. Her curly, half-dried hair rests on her shoulders, loose from its fedora. She's changed into a long night-robe presumably made of silk, with a very decent neckline; and he thinks of how much this femininity differs from the tomboyish, determined warrior he saw killing a man just a few hours ago. Ironically enough, whether strangling hicks in a wifebeater and suspenders or walking around classily in long robes, she still turns him on like a molotow.

He couldn't help but notice how that wife-beater hugged her curves nicely and now he can't help but imagine her completely naked underneath all that silk. Is there a way he can suppress his libido from going berserk over this woman? Apparently not. He hopes she hasn't noticed his lascivious stares, but, of course, she's wide aware of them.

"Would a nun-habit make you more comfortable?" He turns redder than he already is. A nun-habit wouldn't make things better either, he thinks. She walks to the fridge and takes out a couple cubes of ice she wraps in a handkerchief. "Press it against your eye." She commands, handing it to him.

Quite imperious.

"Yes ma'am."

"Want me to check your ribs?" The picture of her hands against his naked chest pops in his mind for a second.

"I'll take care a' that myself." He answers curtly.

"As you wish." She opens the red box, takes out a bottle of disinfectant alcohol, opens it and turns it upside down against a piece of cotton. She uses it to clean the scratches the hick's fingernails left on his neck and he relishes in the contact of her fingers on his skin.

He looks over her features, analyzing her eyes, her full lips, her high cheekbones. It's the first time he's this close to her. From a distance she's quite an attractive woman, but up close she's breath-taking.

Her eyes meet his and he quickly looks away.

"Would you like something to drink?" Her hand has left his neck and her voice is trembling.

 _I'm making her uncomfortable._

"Nah, it's ok. I should prob'bly go back anyways." He gets up, his right hand leaving the ice on the table.

A sharp pang on his side makes him wince and hold onto the chair. Michonne gets up next to him and gently pushes him back down.

"A whiskey. To calm the pain. I insist."

"Ya insist too much, lady." He answers, collapsing on the chair regardless.

The pain is strong, reminds him of the beatings his pa used to give him. He may have broken a couple ribs, he's not sure. He sees her come back a second later with a bottle. She takes two glasses out of a cupboard and pours one for him and one for herself.

He takes out his cigarette case and offers her one. She accepts and lets him light it for her. In another situation he might have taken the way she leans on him for flirty behaviour. But he's not sure what is what with this woman anymore. Everything she does is seductive to him.

They drink and smoke in silence, both lost in their own thoughts.

"I owe you an apology…" she starts after a while.

"Save it." He interrupts her. "I get it."

She questions him with her eyes.

"You get it?" She repeats bitterly.

"Ya thought I was Rick." Daryl ignores the shock in her face. "I know ya two were… sweet on each otha… at some point."

He hears her scoff in disdain.

"Of course he would tell you. I'm part of his game after all."

"Rick ain' like that." She purses her lips and looks away. Under her breath he hears her mumble.

"All men are the same."

 _Oh, no, lady. You won't do that to him._

"Men… it is always men's fault. Isn't it?" She throws him one of her sharp glances.

"Of course not. It's all women's fault. The woman is always either the slut or the temptress or the home wrecker."

"Do ya know how much ya destroyed him, lady?"

"Do you know how much he destroyed me?" He can't answer that. "I guess we destroyed each other." She states truthfully. Her silence is bitter. A sour 'I just wish he cared enough to do this himself.' Daryl doesn't know if telling her the truth will make things better, but as he looks at her he realizes she's jumped to that conclusion herself. "He wants to get over me, doesn't he? That's why he sent you." It's not really a question, she already knows the answer. His silence furthers her assertion and she sighs. "It's better off that way."

Cynical little flower.

„Can I ask ya somethin'?" She looks like he's just slapped her and he realizes he's being ridiculous. What right does he have to inquire about this woman? "Ya don' have ta answer if ya don' want'ta."

"Go ahead."

"Why are ya doin' this?" She doesn't respond right away and he thinks she might not do it at all.

"I have to."

"Ya know it won' change anythin' right?" She gives him a mocking smile.

"You're one of those, aren't you?" _One of those who understand this world, yes_. He thinks. "I never understood men like you. If you have so little hopes in the future, why are you still in this business?"

"Man gotta eat."

"Is that the only reason?"

"Yeah."

"You can be accused of being cynical."

"Huh?"

"Cynical?" She repeats and he looks at her confused. "A pessimist. A man who tends to think the worst of everything."

"I know what pessimist means." He answers, instantly defensive.

"Would you call yourself one?"

"I just see things how they are. I prefer bein'…" he beams at her, looking for the word she used before.

"Cynical"

"To seein' the world through pink glasses."

 _Ah, the irony._

"Doubtful." She seizes him with her dark eyes and he can almost feel them boring inside his soul. "Men like you refuse to admit it, but underneath all that scepticism you're constantly looking for a chance to prove yourselves wrong."

" Skep… what?"

"Disbelief."

"Can't ya speak normally for once?" She ignores his hostility.

"You know the reason of that scepticism? You don't want to be seen as fools, so you pretend like your faith is lost, but in reality, it is just hiding beneath a mask. Waiting for the moment it can pop out again and whisper 'I told you so.'"

Does this woman always get under everyone's skin like this?

Michonne's eyes are firmly set on his.

"So are we to accept the fact that I'm a dumb idealist usin' a mask of pessimism and yer a hypocritical pessimist usin' a mask of naivety?" Her eyes widen at his words and he flashes her a cheeky smile. Bet he fooled her into thinking he was just a dumb redneck. She recomposes immediately and smiles back at him, acknowledging his joke.

"You think I'm naïve?"

"I don'. Ya didn' pay attention to what I said."

"I did, you called me a hypocrite, which I know I'm not."

"Doubtful."

"Pardon?" Daryl leans towards her, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I refuse to believe a woman like ya wouldn' know the way of the world by now. I think yer distrustful an' cynical an' ya don' wanna admit it to yerself."

"Are you trying to turn the cards on me?"

"No. Hear me out. Ya say ya got faith, but I know women like ya. And they're smart enough to see for themselves."

"See what?"

"That the bad people never truly fall. That the devil looks after his own and there's nothin' the just can do about it. That's how things are." He lights another cigarette. "And us fools refuse to see that, yer right. That's why we're constantly sad and angry, cause we're constantly proven wrong. But ya…" He points towards her. "Ya do the opposite. Ya hide yer cynicism behind a mask and use faith as an excuse. So that when yer proven wrong, ya can take it personally. Ya don' believe in justice, ya believe in revenge."

The silence lingers between them, their eyes firmly connected as the weight of their words settles in.

"How much has Rick told you about me?"

"Enough for me to understand ya."

"You think you understand me?"

He hesitates.

"I'm getting there."

Her eyes fall to the floor and she gives him a smile.

"Nice work, detective." She comments. "You've figured me out."

"Cut the sarcasm, honey." Her laugh is silent. "He's after ya now. Won' give up until one of ya two's dead."

"I expect him to."

"Revenge's a dangerous thing."

"It is."

"It won' sate ya. No matter how many a' them ya capture. It ain' never enough."

"You sound like an old grandpa." He snorts at that.

"I just…" he stops.

"You know from experience?" She finishes his sentence.

Memories flash through his head: Carol's wailing, Sophia's corpse, Merle's severed hand lying on the floor of a dirty basement… Yes, there was a time when he was exactly like her. A time when he believed revenge was worth it. When he chased them like a lone vigilante; the only righteous motherfucker is this lawless world.

Whee did that take him?

Nowhere. The world remains the same and his ghosts remain alive. But he's become bitter. Even more so than before. That is what happens. Always. It's what he knows will happen to her.

He knows she has her own ghosts to deal with. He knows what goes through her mind; why she's doing this.

But there really is no point.

"Is it worth it?"

"I think so."

"I don'." She looks back at him.

"And why are you so worried about me?" He doesn't know how to respond to that.

Why, indeed?

Is he crossing the line again?

Michonne extends her fingers towards his cigarette and he offers it to her. His attention turns to the way her lips settle on the bud.

Lips that must taste of tobacco and whiskey.

That notion is tempting enough to make him want to throw all caution to the wind.

He realizes he's been in there too long.

"I should get home." He gets up, still wincing at the pain on his side. But the whiskey has done its job of numbing it enough so he can walk.

"You sure don't want me to check those ribs?" He turns towards Michonne and suddenly the distance between them reduces. He feels her hands against his stomach, her breath against his face. He has an urge to lean in and kiss her, but he stops himself.

 _Not again. Not this time. As little as possible, remember?_

He takes a step back.

"I'm sure. Good night, Mrs. Johnson."

He leaves her standing in the kitchen, her fingers still holding his cigarette.

* * *

 _I put a spell on you - Annie Lennox_


	10. X - Catnip for Women like me

_A/N: Sorry for the slight delay. I had a babysitting-weekend with my two lovely nieces and I came back very sick. Courtesy of the little demons. Funny thing is, my brother was worried that I might pass my hypothetical foreign germs to his Girls (you know, cause College-Kids and their unhealthy world XD), and it ended up being the other way around. Ah, the irony._

 _Five days is not such a long time, but I still regret it. I haven't had time to write or edit_ _and I need to finish this Story before I start my semester, so it kinda stressed me out._

 _The usual: WD don' belong to me. These_ _next couple_ _chapters are not so action packed and more slow, so they might lose a little of that dark, gritty athmosphere. Hope it's not TOO much._

* * *

 **X. Catnip for Women Like Me**

Milton was the name of her deceased informant. He was a loan shark most likely forced into this business due to his debts.

"The police found him last night. Seems to have been a suicide, but someone raided his house after he was dead; Made a mess of the place."

"Is that right?"

"Apparently he knew they were coming for him. Most likely they were looking for this." Maggie waves the documents in the air.

"Most likely." Michonne responds absentmindedly, analysing each document and handing them to Maggie as she goes. The brunette is eyeing her doubtfully.

"You say you met him while he was still alive."

"I did."

"You don't seem at all affected by his dead."

"Like you say, he knew they were coming for him."

"Michonne."

"Hmm?"

"Michonne." The woman sighs and meets Maggie's stare. "He wasn't alive when you met him. Was he?" Was her lie so bad even Maggie saw through it? She knows she's had little to no time to plan it properly as she drove to work this morning, but damn… "Before you think you're losing practice on your stupid game of lies, no. It is a perfectly good alibi and I'm sure the jury will believe it. But I know you and how reckless you are and if you are putting yourself in danger because of this stupid case…"

"It is not just a stupid case, Maggie. Andrea's life depends on it."

"Look, I don't wanna discourage you, but how do you know that this… Milton… whoever he was… was telling the truth?"

"You want me to guess in such a situation?" Maggie rolls her eyes at her. "Maggie."

"I just worry about you…"

"Maggie." This time it is the brunette the one who sighs. "You know me."

"Yes, I do." There are few women in this world who can handle dangerous situations like Michonne. She's not carefree, she knows what she's doing. People like Maggie should keep that in mind before scolding her like a little child.

"Stop worrying and just show those documents to the court. You have enough evidence now to push the case forward. We'll win."

"You can count on it, stubborn cow." Maggie retorts with a tiny smile.

"You're about to laugh."

"Yeah. I only know one person who rivals your stubbornness and it is my sister. You remind me an awful lot of her. Next I know you'll be running off with some redneck and I'll never see you again."

Michonne guffaws at that and the Greene girl keeps eyeing the documents with a smile that hides deep sadness. Recalling her past and family is just as hard for her as it is for Michonne.

"You still talk to her?" She asks for the sake of it and sees the sad smile turn into a scowl.

"Last time I did we got into a fight, as usual." Michonne leaves it there.

Maggie doesn't talk that much about her family either. All she knows about her is that the Greenes used to own a farm they lost mysteriously after the father's death. Maggie, a very smart woman with a good education, decided to move to the North and pursue a carrier that could support her and her younger sister who had just graduated school.

But the little blonde fell in love with a man Maggie didn't like at all. And things between both sisters after that got so bad they both went their separate ways without even acknowledging each other.

Maggie never mentions the name of her sister's husband. And she rarely talks about Beth herself unless she's already into a few drinks. Michonne, however, gets and respects her. There is a gentle understanding between both women that has made them close friends. Just like there was between her and Andrea…

 _Why do I always get so friendly with women with "little sister"-issues?_

Maggie recomposes herself, giving her a practical wink to change the subject.

"In any case… wanna go out tonight? Celebrate your reckless accomplishment with a couple martinis?" Martinis and a good swing. Sounds like a nice plan. "I just fetched my turquoise coctail dress from the french dry cleaner yersterday. And the coral lipstick...?" Michonne shakes her head at that, a smile playing in her lips.

"Plan on using your feminine charms on another poor soul?" Maggie shruggs, kittenish.

"It is not my fault if men naturally fall to my feet. Is it?"

"Uh-huh."

"Besides, every time I go out with you, half of them fly right past me towards you." That's half true and half a lie. Michonne's hard eyes tend to frighten men away more than Maggie's open and soft features. Besides there is no denying a white woman usually gets more attentions than a black one, even in the North. Still, there's always the average number of men who fancy themselves enough of a Casanova to go for the hardest price. Thus, nights out with Maggie always end up with the girl's admirers swarming around her like moths to a flame, while Michonne tries to swat off the poor devil-may-cares who dare approach her.

"Don't worry. I'll send them flying back in your direction."

"Like always. Thanks a lot." Maggie retorts with sarcasm and the other woman laughs.

Maggie enjoys the game; Michonne not so much. Most men are quite unimpressive and the ones who have managed to get her have had to suffer rough times.

Be it as it may, the notion of going out and dancing to jazz music sounds tempting, but after the second time she's almost been killed in a few weeks she doesn't really want to leave her house. Not that she would let Maggie know that, it would only make her worry a lot more. So she thinks of the first lie that comes to her head.

"Already got plans for tonight."

"Oh, a date?" the brunette inquires with a cheeky smile. "What's his name?"

 _Chocolate Ice Cream._

"Why you care?"

"Curious, that's all. Tell me." Michonne bites her lip and blurts the first name that comes to her head at that moment.

"Daryl." Maggie narrows her eyes, her smile disappearing from her lips.

"Daryl?" Michonne nods as naturally as possible, fighting the urge to burst in laughter. _Daryl? really?_ "Last name?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Oh, come, don't leave me in the darkness!"

"See you later, Maggie." The woman gets up and gives her friend a hand-shake before walking towards the door.

"I'll find out one way or another, Johnson!"

As Michonne walks down the hallway towards the elevator, she takes a moment to reflect on why Daryl's name popped so quickly inside her head when Maggie asked her about her fictional date; maybe because she hasn't been able to stop thinking about him since last night.

Since her small lapse of recklessness.

Well, granted, she's a reckless woman, but when it comes to men she's more guarded than most. She's not a flirt like Andrea, nor a man-eater like Maggie. So she doesn't quite understand her impulse to kiss him.

Maybe it was the whisky or Rick's memory; or maybe the fact that the man had just saved her life. Maybe the way in which he managed to seize her up, or his charming disposition.

He's an unusual breed of gentleman. Messy and yet polite; sometimes cocky and sometimes incredibly timid. And very good-looking. She never took the time to properly take on his features until last night.

He's got a pair of very pretty baby blues. And a sweet smile...

Anyhow, he clearly rejected her, which baffles her even more, given the way he looked at her the whole time, desire spilling from his eyes.

Yeah, he's not subtle at all. She can tell from a mile away he's constantly undressing her in his imagination. Something she's accidentally made easier for him.

So, why would a man who clearly eyes her with so much desire have wasted a chance like the one she so carelessly gave him last night?

 _Maybe my hypocrisy turned him off_. She mocks to herself _. Or maybe he really views me as a hoe and thinks I'm not worth his time._

That one hurts.

Michonne sighs at the direction her thoughts are taking.

She's not really interested in this guy, is she?

She shouldn't be. She knows jack shit about him and he's been stalking her without her even wanting him to.

Plus, this really isn't the time for her to get into this kind of sentimental messes. She's got too much on her mind, a fucked up past and she's just gotten out of a turbulent relationship with a man who clearly wanted more than she could give him.

It would be quite stupid to start a new mess with this other guy, who, by the way, happens to be Rick's best friend.

As she gets out of the building and walks towards her Cadillac she spots his small ford and smiles when she sees him peak through the window.

 _Speak of the devil._

She nods in his direction and he throws her that coy smile of his.

 _Fuck_

Her heart skips a beat at the sight of it. It is the most charming thing she's seen the whole week. Her feet instinctively change direction, leading her towards his car. He seems surprised, but rolls down the window anyways.

"Hey."

"Hello." She gives him a wide smile and he takes a deep breath, looking around.

"Is there a problem?"

"No. I just wanted to greet you."

"Oh…"

"Yeah. I know you already, so I figured…"

"Right." There's an awkward silence between them. She can tell he's nervous. He wasn't expecting she would approach him. Neither was she, to be honest. "How are those ribs?"

He seems confused for a moment, but then understands.

"They're fine."

"Nothing broken?" He shakes his head. "You go to a doctor?"

"I don' need one, I know how the pain of broken ribs feel like." His eyes shoot down as soon as the words leave his mouth, almost as if he was ashamed of having said it.

"You should go anyways." He looks back at her, his expression unreadable.

"How 'bout ya? That cut in yer hand healing once an' fer all?" She touches it slightly at the mention of it. It is taking a while, as she constantly opens and closes her fingers while she's working. But it will heal eventually.

"I still have your handkerchief." She realizes.

"Ya can keep it." Another long silence.

 _Why would I want your handkerchief?_

"I was wondering if maybe you would like to come for dinner tonight?" she blurts out.

He looks at her like a deer in headlights and she curses inwardly again. Is there a way this man's awkwardness can stop being so attractive?

Why is it attractive at all?

Must be the unusual vibe he carries around with him: That solemn, shy, yet magnetic attractiveness, so unusual in men; those kinds of men are catnip for women like her.

"I, uh…" _He's gonna run for the hills_ , she thinks. "Yeah. Why not?"

She's quite surprised by his answer. He seems conflicted by it too, but shows no signs of wanting to back down.

"It's only a friendly gesture. A 'thank you' for what you've done for me."

"Alright."

"Ten o'clock?"

"I'll be there."

"See you soon then." She smiles at him and takes off immediately.

Guess the 'excuse' she gave to Maggie isn't an excuse anymore. What the hell is she getting herself into?

Does she care?

She really doesn't. She's not afraid or nervous or wondering if this is the right thing to do.

Something about Daryl gives her the assurance that nothing will go wrong.

She remembers last night and their conversation. He's an intelligent man. One who doesn't think too high of himself.

And he has those blue eyes. Sad and stormy like the sea.

Men like him are hard to resist once you get to know them.

 _Catnip for women like me._ She thinks sourly.

* * *

 _Shape of a Heart - Ane Brun_

 _On with the romance._

 _You know the funny thing? I always thought these would be the easiest chapters to write because they are the ones I've been planning and writting from the beginning. But ironically enough, I find I have more difficulty drafting this romance than I have drafting the plot. Action scenes, no problem... character development and suspense, no problem. But throw me a romance scene and I suddenly don't know where I'm s_ _tanding._

 _So, technically, I'm like Daryl Dixon: Not afraid of anything... except romance and chupacabras XD._


	11. XI - I was Born when she Kissed me

_A/N: Oktoberfest in München. You know what that means. Even if you try to avoid it, it comes to you in the shape of overly obnoxious best friends dragging you by the hair to the wiese._

 _So most likely there is going to be a delay in my story anyways. If I don't finish it before I start my semester, though, don't fret. I won't leave it incomplete, especially not now that I have everything already drafted and ready to be polished._

 _"I was born when she kissed me, I died when she left me, I lived a few weeks while she loved me." -Humphrey Bogart, In a Lonely Place, 1950_

 _In case you are into slow, black and white films, I highly recommend you watch In a Lonely Place. It is a heart-wrenching love story and a wonderful study of madness and the power of suggestion._

 _If you are not... maybe you wanna start? :3. They are not as tedious and lame as the general public is lead to believe. And Humphrey Bogart is cute. Back in the day every woman, even my grandma, was in love with him XD._

* * *

 **XI. I was Born when she Kissed Me...**

He's a messy eater, he knows. But she seems not to mind as she just eats next to him, eyeing him every once in a while with an amused smile while he rightfully makes a mess of his plate.

He cleans his mouth with the back of his sleeve instinctively before noticing the napkin on his side and wanting to slap himself.

Wonderful.

"You missed a spot."

"Huh?" Her hand flies to his face, the napkin between her fingers, and cleans the corner of his mouth. The action makes his cheeks burn and he swears he can see a scarlet tint on her face, but he isn't entirely sure. "Sorry fer the table manners."

She giggles with amusement.

"I don't really mind."

She must be the first woman who doesn't. Even Carol scolded him like a tiger mother every time they ate together. It made him uncomfortable.

"Unusual dame. Don' care 'bout table manners."

"If you were my peanut I would."

"Yer what?" He asks, turning his head to her, only to find her expression has changed from jolly to upset. She swallows hard, recomposing herself and giving him a sad smile.

"I… m-my…" She sighs. "I had a son once." She waits a second before continuing. "Used to call him peanut."

Daryl gulps and nods in understanding. They stay silent for a while.

"Yer a good cook."

"Thank you." She plays a little with her food, seemingly having lost her appetite. The topic of a lost son is delicate. He's been in these kinds of situations before and he knows how bringing it up can ruin a mother's entire evening.

He doesn't know how well he can handle this. But maybe it is better for her to get it out of her system. Plus, he's curious.

"How old was he?" She moves in her chair, uncomfortable.

"Uhm… three… he would be five by now…" Her voice breaks and she releases the fork, burying her face in her hand. Daryl squeezes her shoulder immediately.

"Hey…" She takes a couple deep breaths.

"I'm sorry, I just…"

"It's alright. Sorry fer havin' mentioned it."

"I was the one who mentioned it."

"All the same." She nods. Another silence before she speaks again.

"So… seeing how you know everything about me… why don't you tell me a little about yourself?" Daryl eyes her deviously.

"Ya wanna figure me out, huh?" She shrugs.

"I think it's only fair." His gaze returns to his now empty plate while she waits for his answer. After a moment of hesitation he finally speaks.

"Yer an investigator too. Why don' ya take a guess on what ya can?"

"Are you serious?" He nods, smirking with that small shot of confidence he sporadically becomes every now and then. "I haven't had two weeks to watch your every move, mister Dixon."

"But ya seized me up from the first, didn' ya?" Her expression shows him he's in the right. "Yer smarter than me. So go ahead."

She sighs in defeat.

"Alright." She leans against the table, grabbing her glass of wine. "You come from the south."

"That one's a little too easy."

"Your family isn't exactly rich or… educated..."

"That one too…" Her hand shoots up, stopping him.

"But you are quite sharp and… mildly intellectual, which means you never got a chance to get to college, but you got a chance to finish secondary education. And you were one of the good students."

Now that is a good deduction. Daryl takes a sip of his glass of wine.

"I was the only student. My tutor was a man named Aaron. He died durin' the war."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Keep goin'." She smiles at him.

"Your tutor must've been a volunteer." Silence. "But you weren't an orphan."

"How ya know?"

"Cause when I mentioned your family you didn't automatically correct me. Which means you have one…" She eyes him up and down and then bites her lip, as if holding something back.

He swallows hard, realizing she has figured it out.

"Go ahead. Say it." He whispers lowly and she catches the danger in his tone. She downs the wine in her glass and breathes heavily.

"You have a family… but your disposition is that of a neglected kid." She stops. "You said you know how it feels like to have broken ribs and then you instantly looked ashamed of it; which means you haven't suffered broken ribs from a war-wound or in any heroic way. And you are well used to it." Another pause and she seems conflicted when the words finally leave her mouth. "You were abused as a child."

"It's a normal thing." He comments, defensively, but her eyes are hard when he meets them.

"My mother used to give me a couple belts when I was little. She never broke my ribs."

He looks away.

"Keep goin." She doesn't seem faced by his defensive reaction at all.

"Alright." She gulps. "You're passionately loyal to your friends. You have a short temper and prefer to solve disputes through fists more than through words when you can. But you are not really a trouble-maker. You don't look for fights, you try to avoid them."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Ya also deduced that?"

"Not really. Rick told me." Daryl starts to laugh and Michonne follows and the tension that was caused by the mention of his past breaks.

"Alright, that's enough."

"Hey! I was starting to have fun with this detective thing!"

"Ya cheated."

"Not true. You never set any guidelines." He gives her a smile and this time he's pretty sure she blushes at the sight of it. "You want desert?"

"Somethin' a do with chocolate?"

"U-huh. How did you guess?"

"Ya eat it the whole day."

"Oh, dear, I know. A couple more of those small chocolate truffles and I'll be rolling down the street like my Cadillac."

He laughs at her occurrence.

"Ya got nothin' a worry about." She looks at him and he flashes her a sneaky smile. The strange familiarity between them makes him feel weirdly comfortable, even though he's crossing dangerous territory with this lady.

"You would know." She answers, giving him a wink.

Before he can process her comment, she's disappeared inside the kitchen.

 _That was shameless._

Is she hitting on him?

Holy fuck.

And here he thought he didn't have a chance with this woman. This is bad.

Or is it?

He hasn't felt so strangely connected to a woman in a very long time. Yes, he wants her like a madman, but there's also… something else there; something about knowing her and liking every tiny quirk of hers; about wanting to protect her, wanting her to know him and about the calm way in which she seems to accept him.

 _Well, shit._

"Something wrong?" She asks him from behind, setting a plate of chocolate cookies in front of him. Goosebumps crawl down his back at the slight contact of her hand on his shoulder.

"I, uh…" He starts. "I wanted to ask if ya needed help."

She gives him that beautiful smile and it's like the whole world has a meaning again.

"I'm the host here." She sits in front of him and fills their glasses with more wine. "I forgot to ask. What's your favourite food? You know mine is chocolate."

"And cheese."

"And cheese."

"Mine's squirrel."

"You're kidding right?" He snickers at the disgust plastered on her face.

"Yeah. But I've had some."

"Hunt them yourself?"

"Yeah." She nods.

"Figured as much."

"Bullshit."

"Yeah, actually Rick told me that too. He said you're pretty good with a crossbow though…"

"Had my first when I was twelve. My brother kept stealin' money from the old man until we had enough to buy it." He reflects on the memories. "I was used to huntin' squirrels with a long stick an' it was bloody hard, so he thought 'let's give the fucker a better weapon'. An' there ya got it. First time I use it, I get three a' the lil' demons."

"You were good."

"I was amazin'."

"I used to hunt for rabbits with a machete."

"Yer pretty good with knives. I noticed."

"You have no idea."

They talk and talk about their passions and their fears. Conversation flows naturally between them and Daryl is astonished at how much he can open up with this woman. He's usually very closed and silent. Rick himself needed one year of friendship to get him to trust him.

And yet this woman has him opening himself to her like a book. Must be this strange intimacy between them.

Trust. They know they get each other. They have the peculiar certainty that the other doesn't pose a threat.

The conversation turns deeper as the hours go by and they start talking about their pasts. There's no tension there anymore.

"I had a big brother. Merle… He was the only one who gave a shit 'bout me…"

"Andre Anthony. That was his name. He was a good boy…"

"Aaron an' his boyfriend lived hidden in the woods a' Virginia. I never knew two people more in love than they were. They were outcasts, just like me, an' I found it impossible to hate 'em…"

"I loved my town; loved my people. But I knew I had to get out of there. I had promised it to my father that I would. So I accepted the scholarship and just ran away, leaving my parents alone…"

"Her name was Carol an' she was the most beautiful woman in that place…"

"Then Rick came through those doors and I remember thinking 'he's such a handsome man'…"

"We lost more than a couple friends durin' that bombing. I can still hear the explosions if I try n' remember hard enough…"

"The shooting went on the entire night, while we were hiding in the basement. They killed our neighbour and hanged her husband on a tree outside the house…"

"And when I went down to the basement, I only found his severed hand… an' I lost my shit…"

"I remember my baby's silhouette still inside the cradle; his blood stained the mattress…"

When the shroud of their own pasts becomes too heavy to keep talking about it, they both quiet down, looking at each other for long minutes. The tenderness of this noiseless moment, after so much shared pain, is perfect and unadulterated; their guard is down, their trust in each other whole: A silent instant in each other's company; an instant in which they can just be.

A tear starts rolling down her cheek and he catches it in his hand.

"Yer eyes are blues…"

"They are not."

"Ya know what I mean."

"Oh…"

"Yeah." She smiles at him.

"You've got blue eyes too."

"Statin' the obvious." Her laugh is like a soothing melody. The spell is broken and reality comes back biting. He's been there too long. Again. And this time there's no turning back from what he knows is more than just infatuation. "I should get home."

"Yeah." His hand caresses her chin and he licks his lips, unsure if he should or shouldn't. She leans in, not giving him much time to hesitate. Her lips are soft against his cheek. She withdraws and smiles at him, crushing her cigarette against the ashtray. "Come on."

She follows him to the door and he stops and turns to her before exiting.

"We can… do this again."

"I would like that." He smiles timidly, his expectations broken by that friendly kiss she just gave him.

"Good night, ma'am."

"Good night."

The moon is bright in the sky as he goes out, and he looks at it wondering how, of all the people in this world, he happened to come across her.

This lovely creature.

* * *

 _Over the Love - Florence & The Machine_

 _Before I forget... Vegaslover... I can't tell you if your hunch is right or wrong cause that would ruin the story's suspense. All I can say is, the revelation of Beth's and her husband's whereabouts will play an important part and it might be a quite unconventional one._


	12. XII - Somewhere, Anywhere, Nowhere

_A/N: I'm baaaack!_

 _So sorry for the delay. You see, this is what I mean when I say it is stressful to start a semester while you're writing a story. Makes things much more complicated._

 _For example: I know there is something wrong with this chapter, but I can't quite find the mistake in it. So, you guys, please let me know. Handling three languages at the same time is tricky and it sometimes becomes a hindrance to good writing and editing._

 _Anyways, hope you're enjoying it regardless._

 _Also... hoooray on the premiere to season 6! Am I right?! Am I right?! Rick bein' batshit crazy, Carol scary as fuck, Daryl and Glenn high as kites, givin' people second chances and shit and Michonne and Morgan flirting in front of Rick, who's just like "Dafuq?!"_

 _Aaaaaaand to my boyfriend's dismay I just have a huge crush on hippie 'peace bro' Morgan right now. Damn you Lennie and your gorgeous smile._

* * *

 **XII.** **Somewhere, Anywhere, Nowhere**

He watches her as she exits the door and meets with the enigmatic figure waiting for her downstairs. Both sets of high heels turn around and walk down the street, and he loses sight of them as they cross the alley, disappearing in the fog. As silently as possible, he follows the path and rounds the corner of the alley, and he sees both figures standing next to a streetlight, talking. The small figure in the fedora is someone he cannot recognize. The other one is Michonne.

Who is she talking to? Andrea? Another of her informants?

Daryl gulps, his gaze fixed on the silhouettes standing a few meters away. He keeps watch, his hand underneath his coat, grasping his revolver tight.

 **-o-**

"We aren't working together anymore."

"So…" The woman in front of her taps her foot against the pavement, and the sound of her heel is the most terrifying thing Michonne's heard the entire night. She hates these types of people who can really intimidate her. Especially when they are just a 5 foot tall, petite-featured woman with a waist slimmer than Princess Sissy's.

"It wasn't my decision. It was hers."

"I know it was hers. She's the single most foolish girl I've met in my lifetime." Michonne purses her lips at that. It's not true. Andrea is smart, she knows it. But she's also young and that's enough for a lonely woman in this unfair city to fuck her life over.

"Did you know any better at her age, Carol?" The woman's eyes turn cold, but she doesn't back down. She definitely knows what Michonne's talking about.

"Watch it." _Why should I? Aren't you the one treating me in a very patronizing manner?_ She doesn't want to pull the race or gender card right now, cause that honestly would be an excuse. She knows the reason of Carol's hostility. It is not due to her gender, which they both share, or to the color of her skin, which they don't. It is due to her mistake. And it was the hell of a mistake. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Excuse me?"

"I asked…" She takes a step closer and the dark-skinned woman tenses. "What your plan is."

Is she really putting all the responsibility on her? Guess it's only fair, even though it is not entirely her fault. Andrea's a grown ass woman, right? The decision she made was hers alone. Explaining that to Mrs. Peletier, however, is as worthless and exhausting as trying to bathe a cat. This is why dealing with informants drives her nuts. She really thought Carol was different than other Ganster's sweethearts. Maybe she isn't.

"To take her out of there as soon as possible."

"How?"

"I have to win this case. Expose him to the world; to the jury." Carol rolls her eyes at that. "Once everyone in this godawful city knows who he really is he'll have nowhere to run."

"Men like him always have somewhere to run."

"That's why I need you to keep me informed…"

"Oh, you need me? Thought we were here discussing Andrea, not negotiating another worthless investment." Dark eyes throw her a murderous glare.

"Worthless?" Carol goes from one foot to another, uncomfortable.

"You heard me." Her voice is shaky. "I did this for Rick. Because he asked me to. He should've told me how truly obsolete you were, but I guess he's far too in love with you to realize that." Michonne clenches her jaw at that. This time it is her the one who takes a step towards Carol and she jumps visibly.

 _Oh, so I do intimidate her at least a little bit._

"You… do not speak to me like that. Understand?" Both women glare at each other in silence.

"Suppose I keep on helping you…" Carol finally whispers.

"Suppose you do."

"Suppose I demand a fair price this time." _Fair price?_ Michonne thinks with mockery.

"Suppose we have to discuss it."

"I want my girl back."

"I was planning of getting her back anyways, but not for you."

"Well, now you have two reasons."

"No. You're not worth it." Michonne turns her back to her. "But I'll get her back. I promise."

"You better." She hears the woman's voice behind her. It is low and dangerous. "I fed a terminus bitch to the dogs once; I'll do it again if I have to."

Terminus. She's the mythical figure who took the whole gang down. She's not joking.

Michonne starts walking away, not bothering to check if Carol is still there or not. By the time she reaches the end of the alley and looks over her shoulder, the woman has retreated from their meeting place, disappearing in the fog.

"Bitch." She mutters under her breath.

"Who?" A voice next to her wonders. She jumps away, containing her scream, and takes out the revolver she's strapped to her waist, only to find it pointing directly at Daryl's forehead. _Holy shit!_ She thinks, putting it down.

"Daryl!" She tries to recover her breath. A flare of rage sparks inside her. What's his fucking problem? She could've killed him right now. "You fucking scared me!"

Her irritation is blatant and it seems to exasperate him as well.

"Who was that?" He asks in a pressing tone.

"An informant." She states simply, before walking right past him towards her apartment. He follows her, unwilling to drop the subject.

"Why didn' ya tell me?" She looks at him indignant. She hates it when other people treat her like a naughty child. The night has been hard enough, she doesn't need this right now.

"It's just a woman, Daryl." He glares at her and she sighs, frustrated. That's no excuse, she knows; especially coming from a woman like her. "I don't wanna be unfair to my own sex, but honestly, she doesn't scare me in the slightest." She lies.

"She could've ambushed ya." She snorts at that and can almost sense his blood boiling.

"No, she wouldn't do that. Look, I'm sorry. I just… didn't wanna bother you." As soon as she turns her back to him, she hears him mutter something under his breath. 'Bloody hypocrite.' She turns to him, her eyes wide with shock.

"Excuse me?!"

"Ya heard me! Cheat! Scamp! Hypocrite! Yer still hidin' half a yer intentions behind lame excuses!"

"And if I am, what gives you the right to nose into them?!" She goes back on her feet until she's in front of him. "I never asked for your snoopy self to stalk me the whole day! You're not my husband or my brother or my father! So butt out of my personal business and keep to your side of the street!"

"My side a the street?! Yer da one who constantly looks fer me! Da one who didn' close da dang curtains cause ya thought Rick was watchin' ya...!"

A slap lands on his cheek, shutting him up. He steps back, his eyes down with guilt. Michonne draws back, panting. The scar in her hand is burning. And a feeling of worthlessness creeps inside her bones, stretching her lungs inside her ribcage.

She turns her back to him and runs away.

 **-o-**

The day is cold and grey, with a humid threat of rain in the air. She watches the city from the bridge and the city looks back, its true ugly smile half covered in the fog, mocking her. She's standing there, doing her best to swim against the current of its own inhabitants.

When she herself is a part of it.

There is a rhythm to every living creature that comes to this world; some sort of rule or destiny every individual has to abide. And those who try and fight against the odds usually end up losing. That's how ugly reality is. She's had to learn the hard way.

Back in the days when her father's faith was the one thing keeping her on her feet in that racist hell she called her home; back in the days when her son's smile used to give her courage and her husband's words were statements she believed she could prove wrong; back in the good days, when her innocence was intact and her faith was whole… when she wasn't a survivor and she refused to look into the ugly eyes of a world that kept on moving without her… she could've done something to change herself. Right now, however, it is too late.

People like her are doomed to either die young or keep on moving along in the dark; looking for that righteous answer they know doesn't exist. Looking aimlessly until they give up or give into their own deadly destiny.

She's one of the less lucky ones as death is not an option for her.

 _Keep on going until your back breaks. You're still here, after all. They aren't._

Someone leans on the handrail next to her and she turns to find her protector, his eyes fixed on the faraway buildings. She gulps, burning with guilt. She doesn't know what to say to him anymore. The way she acted yesterday was inexcusable.

What right did she have to explode? He was the one who has it hard every time she runs off and puts herself in danger. Of course he was mad at her.

"Watching me from afar again?" She whispers. He stays silent for a few seconds before responding.

"I ain' that far from ya right now." Michonne swallows hard, her eyes focusing on the dark spot on his cheekbone. A scratch from her fingernail. It is not that big, but makes her feel horrible regardless.

"I did that?"

"Did what?" She moves her hand to his face and he draws back, looking at her with caution. When he sees deep guilt cross her features, however, his expression softens. She grazes his cheek sweetly, gulping. Most women slap back and forth all the time. But she knows there's something extremely unfair about doing that to someone who wasn't hurting or threatening her in the first place. Daryl may be a cad, but there have been times in which she's also behaved like a vixen towards him... in more ways than one. He is used to being hurt, played with, hit and put down. She really shouldn't treat him this way.

"Forgive me." She whispers. "I should've never hit you…"

"I deserved it."

"No, you didn't." He swallows hard and looks back into the horizon. She moves her hand away, following his gaze, and the silence lingers for a while.

"What I said last night…" He starts and she exhales. "I'm the biggest asshole ever existed. M' sorry."

"You're not the biggest asshole who ever existed." That place goes to Philip. Or the men who killed her family. But not to him. "You're just a small asshole having to deal with a big bitch."

"Yer not a big bitch." He smirks at her when she meets his eyes. "Just a bitch. Just sometimes. Not always."

"Good to know." They both look at each other for a few seconds. "You should ask Rick to put someone else on this mission."

He looks for the cigarette case he always has in his pocket and opens it. He does his typical offering but she refuses.

"Nah." He mumbles, lighting a match for himself. "I grown fond a ya."

"Is that right?" His eyes are fixed on hers, and it looks as if he was holding so many things back. Things he cannot express for a reason. Be it his own insecurities, the inconvenience of this whole situation, Rick…

She waits in silence while he smokes his cigarette, looking at the people crossing the street. Moments ago she was wrapped in her own ghosts, trying to find a solution to so many gordian knots… but now he's here and all her doubts and fears seem to have taken a back-seat to the way he makes her feel.

 _I'm safe with him. Safe from myself; safe from the world. Safe in his hands._

She pulls herself away from the handrail and starts walking with no direction down the bridge. As always, she hears her shadow walking behind her until he reaches her side.

"Where we goin'?"

"Somewhere."

"Anywhere?" She smiles at him, scooping closer. Their hands touch and out of impulse she lets them intertwine, closing her fingers around his.

"Nowhere." She can feel his rapid pulse and though she doesn't turn to look at him she guesses the panicked expression on his features. She would like to kiss him. Damn, would she like that. Just stop walking, drag him by the hand towards her, take his face in her hands, stroking his lovely stubble, and touch his lips with hers.

He must taste of tobacco; he's always smoking. And the smell of his neck must be earthly; he's not the kind of man who would hide it behind cheap colognes. He's a dark horse in almost everything he does; kissing must be one of them, right? He's probably better at it than he realizes.

Is he tame or more of a ferocious type? The kind who would take her breath away in one second? The kind who would cage her in his strong arms or press her against the wall?

All those questions swim through her head and she lets them come and go, but doesn't make the move.

She's surprised at how panicked she behaves with all this. That same dare that seemed to come so sporadically, drawing her incredibly close to this man, is suddenly gone. And she doesn't know very well why.

Is it caution? Fear of falling in love again after such a recent heartbreak? Unease about the fact that he's managed to trespass so many walls within her? That he has her batting around him like a moth to a flame?

Panic attacks are unusual in her, but whenever she has them she becomes erratic. The amount of mixed messages she's sending him right now, for example, must be driving him mad. She can't really help it though. She wants him closer and away at the same time.

And it frustrates her just as much to be stuck in this awful limbo of uncertainty.

Slowly but surely, his fingers close around her hand. She lets go of the air she didn't realize she was holding inside her chest. Their walk is slow, silent and strangely intimate. The sky starts darkening and heavy clouds close around them as the people slowly retreat, afraid of the upcoming rain. He turns to look at her when the first thunder resonates in the distance and she just holds his gaze; a semi-smile playing in her lips.

Heavy droplets of water start falling from the sky and it doesn't take them long before they are soaked to the bone. People around them run for cover, but they just keep on walking calmly. This damn cold weather doesn't bother them that much. Especially not now. They cross a street and reach an alley and she suddenly doesn't know where she is anymore. She looks back at Daryl, but he just shrugs.

It's good to be lost. In the city. Under the rain. And with no way of going back.

She starts laughing at the irony of that. A pull from his hand and she's falling against his chest as he swings an arm around her waist. She looks up inquisitively and catches his blue eyes behind wet strands of hair looking back at her. With one hand on her waist and the other still holding hers he starts spinning her around as if they were in a ballroom.

Dancing in the street, under the rain, both lost in the city.

There's nothing more romantic than that.

An imaginary tango starts playing inside her head, accompanied by the drumming rhythm of the rain. He takes the lead, twirling her around, and she follows him, never falling behind. He's still awkward, but she can tell he's done this before. Dancing, that is.

 _With his jazz-singer._ She thinks, biting back her jealousy.

He grabs her waist with both hands and lifts her in the air, spinning to the rythm of her laughter. She clutches his shoulders tight when he lowers her back to the ground, their bodies brushing so close…

She pulls her head back, her long soaked hair sticking to her face. His fingers brush it away and his face comes very close to hers. She presses her damp forehead against his, her hands flying to his chest. She feels his skin through the wet fabric of his shirt. He must be the only man in this city who doesn't wear a trench-coat in this weather. Thank god for that.

Their noses brush softly and their heads tilt, but don't move an inch closer. They waver long enough, not daring to open their eyes and look into the other's unsure expressions. She hears him take a deep breath and a second later he's pulling away and planting his cold lips on her forehead. She rests her chin on his shoulder.

Beeeeeep!

The sound of a car-horn approaching catches them off guard. They turn to the street in time to see it head in their direction.

 _Shit!_

Daryl grabs her hand again and they both get off the middle of the street, laughing like a pair of little kids. The car drives past, passenger and driver shouting a bunch of insults at them. It doesn't ruin their mood in the slightest.

They run down the path they came from, somehow finding it among the labyrinth of streets and alleys. For some stupid reason it has just now become a priority to avoid getting soaked any further, at the risk of catching pneumonia if they haven't already.

"Get in!" He shouts as soon as they reach her Cadillac.

"Yes, sir!" He cackles at that. She closes the door and watches him get inside his ford.

By the time they get home the rain has stopped; as suddenly as it first appeared.

"I'm so gonna catch a cold right now." Daryl comments as he locks his car.

"What kind of man goes out wearing a simple shirt in this weather?" She mocks, walking up to him. "Come inside and I'll make you chicken soup."

 _And maybe something more._

When he turns to look at her, he stops dead in his tracks, his eyes traveling down her body and back to her face. Her coat is hanging from her arm and her soaked and therefore transparent blouse is sticking to her torso. Yes, she's doing it on purpose, and yes, she can tell he knows.

"What?" She asks almost innocently, although she knows exactly what's going through his mind. He looks down and snorts at something.

"Nothin'." Silence. "Today's ma birthday." Her smile disappears, replaced by shock.

"Why didn't you say anything?" He shrugs, as if it wasn't important. "Oh my, I should get you a gift."

"Don' be silly."

"I'm not." He smiles. "Wanna come have dinner with me tonight? We can go out…" She stops when she sees the conflicted expression on his face.

 _Oh, god. He's really going to run for the hills._

She looks down, not wanting to scare him any further. Is she really coming in too strong? Hell damn her.

"Thank ya."

"For what?"

"Today." She tilts her head, not understanding. "I never danced with a dame in the middle a the street under heavy rain before. It was a lot a fun." She laughs at that. "Think that qualifies as a good birthday-present."

She bites her lip and watches him do his signature side-to-side walk, before giving her a curt nod and a 'Good afternoon, Ma'am.' and running to his side of the street.

This world is so huge, so full of people; so ugly and miserable and good-for-nothing. Humans in it are meant to be lost; to wander around alone, never finding themselves or each other. And she wonders, of all the paths she could've gone down, how did she happen to come across him?

This beautiful creature.

* * *

 _Two songs for the two different moods of this chapter:_

 _Skin to Bone - Linkin Park_

 _Postcards from Italy - Beirut_

 _Like crazy-cookie-monster Carol being a femme fatale? I do. A lot. Kinda have a huge crush on her too. Which might derive in a femslash oneshot soon enough._


	13. XIII - Forever Dead and Lovely

_A/N: Ok, I know it's been a while, but I promise my lack of posting is over._

 _Walking Dead don' belong to me._

 _PS: Carol is awesome. I warned that my giant crush on her would derive in a fem-slash oneshot. Well, I just wrote a story in the heat of the moment after watching JSS. Quite literally, the heat of the moment. So if you're interested in a weird couple like Carchonne (Carol & Michonne) I'll be posting "Late Bloomers they Called Us" in a few weeks. Check it out!_

* * *

 **XIII. Forever Dead and Lovely**

 _Sitting in front of her is a woman. A blonde, beautiful, young woman whose goofy smile brightens her soul. The glass in her hand dangles from one side to the other and her laughter gets louder and louder with every sip she takes from it._

 _Oh, sweet, sweet Andrea. She really can't hold her liquor. She'll be really messed tomorrow, for sure. But that's what Michonne is there for. Isn't she?_

 _"Let's go dancing like last time."_

 _"Not like last time."_

 _"You enjoyed it." No, she didn't. Having to carry a drunken Andrea home is not her idea of a good time. The blonde catches Michonne's frown and sighs. "Old Saphire."_

 _In another situation, that slur would gain her a punch to the gut, but Michonne knows she doesn't mean it. She's drunk and emotional and that can derive in a whole lot of insults._

 _"I'd rather you drank inside the house."_

 _"Who are you? My mom?" Yeah, she sometimes feels like it. "Fine then. I ain't never gonna get rid of parental control." She puts the glass on the table and takes Michonne's hand, pulling her up. "Come dance, ole Saphire." Michonne laughs at that._

 _"Can't say no to you, Blondie."_

 _Andrea is a great dancer most of the time. Whenever she's drunk, however, she grows three left feet and trips on everything. It is still fun to dance with her in that state, though. Michonne holds her up for the sixth time, preventing her from crashing against a chair. She doesn't remember the last time she was drunk, but she's pretty sure she never hurt herself in the process. Andrea, however… she wonders how the little blonde is still alive._

 _"You're a real friend, Chonne." Andrea whispers, clinging to her neck. Michonne bites her lip, awkwardly corresponding the hug, before helping Andrea sit down on the armchair. "This is the most fun we've had in weeks."_

 _It's so painfully true._

 _"Girls' night." Michonne whispers and both women laugh._

 _"I think we work too hard and get paid too low in comparison to our male colleagues."_

 _"Welcome to the world, baby."_

 _"All humans are equal… except for blacks, poor people and females."_

 _"You're such a communist."_

 _"Oh, no! The horror!" Michonne's laughter is bitter. Andrea puts her glass up. "Cheers to suffrage, sister."_

 _"Cheers to freedom." The blonde catches the sarcasm in her voice._

 _"We still have a long way to go." Her friend nods in silence. "Shouldn't the male population be grateful for the increasing female workforce?"_

 _"Why would they be?"_

 _"Well, it is obvious, isn't it?" Andrea states in a matter-of-factly tone. "It betters the economy, it lifts the pressure of breadwinning in the household…"_

 _"It is now more difficult for men to find jobs."_

 _"More difficult than it is for women?" Michonne shrugs at her friend's question._

 _"It also worsens their marriage chances; it gives women a lot more power and privileges."_

 _"And that is always bad."_

 _"Let's put it this way: if you didn't have a sustaining job just like your or my mother, you would have had to marry Dale as soon as possible and resign yourself to have his children and cook for him every night until the end of your days." Andrea chokes on her drink and looks at Michonne with a mix of amusement and shame._

 _"Who told you about that?" She asks and Michonne just gives her a wicked grin._

 _"The horror!" She mocks._

 _Andrea guffaws._

 _"I'm gonna kill Rick. Tell him to hold his tongue when he's in bed with you." The comment makes her frown._

 _"You know we don't see each other anymore." Andrea shrugs at that, accommodating herself in the armchair._

 _"Give it two months tops, he'll come back to you like a damn boomerang." Michonne swallows hard. Perhaps he will; perhaps he'll be too busy looking into dashing, good girl Jessie's eyes. "Plus… I'm very sorry to inform you Dale wasn't like that."_

 _Michonne is grateful for the change of subject. She lifts an eyebrow and stares straight into Andrea's eyes._

 _"He took your revolver away cause he was of the mind dames shouldn't carry weapons. Or pants." She adds._

 _Andrea bites her lip and starts looking around once she realizes her glass is empty and the bottle of brandy is nowhere in sight._

 _"Well, that's what he said to me. I'm sure what he was truly thinking was: This woman's gonna kill herself for her sister." She turns to Michonne. "Which I almost did." She sighs before continuing. "He was kinda like you hiding that bottle from me." The woman moves on her chair, her hands still behind her, clutching the neck of the bottle. "Give it here, Chonne!"_

 _"Just don't throw up on the carpet." She pleads while handing it to Andrea. Truly, the carpet is not what bothers her. She doesn't like to see her friend get hammered. Maybe she's being too much of a mother figure._

 _"When have I ever…?!" Andrea stops as she meets with Michonne's stare and raised eyebrows. "Right. This is my last. Promise." She pours herself another glass and rests her back on the armchair. "He was a sweetheart. You never knew him; it's a shame, you would've liked him." She smiles at the memory of him. She usually remembers the people that's come and gone through her life with that cold melancholy that comes as a defense mechanism against depression. "Every life matters." She repeats. It's a phrase Dale used to repeat to her. Quite often, judging by the way she constantly quotes it._

 _Michonne can't say she's ever met a chief of police with those morals. But she would've liked to._

 _"Old dreamer." She comments._

 _"He was right about something, though." Andrea downs her glass and sets it on the table, away from her. "Man isn't the problem; society is." Michonne exhales, but doesn't respond. Long seconds pass in complete silence. Andrea knows her colleague is less than thrilled by her statement. "Kant: In its most pure form, man is good. But once he enters society he learns the values that corrupt him."_

 _Michonne's hand grabs the bottle and gets up from the couch, walking towards the cabinet. She sets the bottle back in and closes it with a key. Through the reflection of the glass door she can see her friend looking right back at her._

 _"Nietzsche:" She starts, coldly. "Man is naturally aggressive and greedy. Society, as a structure, is what creates rules against man's instinctive brutality. Nature itself depends on violence and brutality to keep on existing."_

 _"Nature is evil?" A voice comes from the shadows. It's not Andrea's, it's someone else's. The voice of someone she cannot completely recognize. Mike? Rick? Daryl?_

 _"Nature is chaos." She answers. "We are a part of nature. Therefore, we are just as chaotic. Civilization tries to destroy this because it sees it as the beginning of entropy; but it shows throughout history that the more we fight it, the more it resurfaces in worse ways every time: slavery, colonization, World War Two, the Holocaust… it all comes down to the same conclusion. Mankind is just as brutal as any other animal-species."_

 _"You think criminals are criminals because they want to be?" Andrea's voice again._

 _"That's not what I said."_

 _"It's what you're implying." Silence. "Let's take Philip, for example…"_

 _"Philip?" Michonne turns to Andrea and she's further than she remembers she was before. The woman frowns at that and tries to take a step forward, but she cannot._

 _"Blake. Why does it matter what I call him?" The fact that she just called the Governor by his first name makes her blood freeze inside her veins. Danger ahead and Andrea is walking right into the trap. "Philip grew up as a poor boy. He had no choice but to enter a gang. That or break his back in the mines at the age of twelve. It was not a problem of him being an asshole, it was a problem of society not giving him a chance."_

 _"If Blake had the chance, do you really think he would rectify his life?"_

 _"Yes." The silence lingers dangerously in the atmosphere and the room seems to grow colder and darker, Andrea drifting further and further away. Michonne doesn't understand what's going on, but she knows it's bad. Something ugly and evil is hunting them down, and the silence seems to choke her into paranoid desperation._

 _"Innocence is beautiful." The unrecognizable voice whispers, making goosebumps crawl down her spine. "Ain't that right, Johnson?"_

 _"Come here, Andrea...'" She whispers, trembling. "Don't stray so far from me."_

 _"How could you do this?!" The scream comes from somewhere she cannot recognize. She turns her head in every direction, but the only thing she sees is a reflection in the glass door of the cabinet. Two women standing in front of each other in her office. A painful memory._

 _"This is not what you think it is! He is not what you think he is!" Blondie screams at her. Michonne puts her hand on the glass as if she could reach her._

 _"No, Blondie, please listen to me!''_

 _"You've always been hostile towards him!" The Andrea on the glass continues. "Towards anyone you subjectively consider a threat!"_

 _"That's cause I can see it."_

 _"See what?!"_

 _"The truth!"_

 _'Don't, please! Don't get mad! Be reasonable with her! Please! Her life depends on it!'_

 _But the Michonne she sees in the reflection is angry and hurt and feeling betrayed. She doesn't understand it yet. She doesn't see._

 _"You were under his spell the second you set eyes on him."_

 _"That's not true."_

 _"And you still are…"_

 _"No! I am there because those people need me! They need me to take them out of this hell!" Young and lovely Andrea, always naive and risky. Always wanting to be the hero; to prove she can change the world or a man._

 _"I didn't realize the Messiah complex was contagious. All the people he's killed, Blondie…"_

 _"He hasn't!"_

 _"Police reports must be lying then!"_

 _"Cause you poisoned Rick against him! Against me!"_

 _"And you betrayed me." The Michonne in the reflection spits, hateful. "You chose a warm bed over a friend."_

 _"No!" Michonne screams. "No! Blondie, I know you didn't! I know you had good intentions! I'm sorry!"_

 _"Go to hell Michonne! I am done trying to reach out to you! You never let me in. Never let anyone in!" A cold silence lingers between both figures, before Michonne outers the last words she should've never said._

 _"You've just been slowing me down on this case, anyway."_

 _Michonne lays her head against the glass, her eyes firmly shut._

 _"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…"_

 _"You're damaged." Rick's voice whispers._

 _"You're wrong." Daryl's voice scolds her._

 _"You're guilty." Mike's voice roars._

 _"I am not!" Her fists slam against the glass, breaking it. Her hands bloody, she steps away from the glass shards, tears streaming down her face._

 _"You always pushed her away, Johnson." The voice keeps on talking. She can now recognize it. Philip._

 _"No…"_

 _"Pushed her right into my arms."_

 _"No! No, that's not true!" She turns around, her hand reaching towards Andrea's slowly retreating figure. "Andrea, come back!"_

 _"Too late." Philip appears from behind the blonde, stroking her neck and putting a revolver against her temple. Michonne tries to move, but her legs don't respond._

 _"Andrea, no!"_

 _Bang!_

She jolts awake, exhausted and completely covered in cold sweat. Her body feels like it's just fought a battle, but she knows she cannot go back to sleep anymore. She gathers her strength and sits up on the bed, bringing her knees to her chest and her hands to her head.

What time is it really? Must be past two. The silence and loneliness of the room asphyxiate her, but no more than her own fear and self-hatred.

Is it her fault that Andrea left? Is she the one who pushed her away?

She realizes she's been feeling this way for a while. Blaming herself for her friend's decision of running into Philip's arms. Not because she didn't warn her; but because of the way in which she did it. She should've known, from all the examples she saw in her cases, that behaving defensively in that situation was a recipe for disaster. But then her own feelings got involved and the pain of a potential betrayal, of getting hurt, made her attack and run before losing Andrea otherwise.

Because she knew she would lose her one way or another. Even if she did win the case against Philip, she would lose her.

 _I'm sorry, friend._

She takes a deep breath.

 _Keep your shit together._

She jumps out of bed, feeling claustrophobic, puts on her night-robe and walks towards the window. Her hands push the curtains away and open it, and as she leans on its frame, breathing deep in the cold, humid air, she fixes her gaze on the window of the apartment across the street.

Its lights are out.

* * *

 _Dead and Lovely - Tom Waits_


	14. XIV - The Sweet Scent of a Magnolia

_A/N: I don't publish two chapters the same day, I know. I usually wait one day to publish one and the next to publish another. But this chapter and Dead and Lovely were actually one chapter I decided to split in two because... I don't know, the title Dead and Lovely deserved its own chapter I guess._

 _And because I like to have certain concrete leitmotivs or climaxes in each chapter and Andrea's nightmare plus the events narrated in this chapter seemed to make it too convoluted._

 _Or maybe... it's because I like teasing you :)_

* * *

 **XIV. The Sweet Scent of a Magnolia**

She hates this day; worst day she's had in a long time. She hasn't even made it out of bed and she already knows.

The sun is covered by heavy clouds and it hasn't stopped raining the whole morning. She knows cause she stayed awake until four; calmly staring at the dark window of the apartment on the other side of the street, secretly hoping he would turn on the lights. Plus, she has a ton of paperwork to do and her night terrors have kept her awake for most part of the night. A million questions she's blocked from her mind are crossing it again right now. Is Andrea still alive? Is any of this worth it?

On top of that, today's the anniversary of her wedding.

 _Back in the good days…_

She's woken up to an empty bed; no Mike, no Andre. No Rick or Daryl to console her either from the awful memories that don't seem to leave her head.

As she exits the building, she hears the now familiar sound of a door opening and closing behind her. She turns to Daryl as he makes his way to his own car.

He puts up a hand as a sign of hello and she just nods, a sad smile on her lips, before getting inside the car.

 **-o-**

He's noticed her gloominess from the moment he saw her get out of the room. Makes him wonder again, but he knows better than to ask.

Seeing her like this makes him unhappy.

 _Oh, ya sentimental fool_. Merle's voice scolds him inside his head.

He follows her like always, wondering about the reasons of her bad mood. Could be the night terrors were especially bad last night? He doesn't know anymore, since she keeps the curtains firmly closed.

 _Those damn curtains._

He hates them so goddamn much. On the one hand, they are the only barrier that's kept him from going insane of want over this woman. Now that he understands his feelings for her, he's sure another show-off of hers would instantly make him throw everything to hell, run to her apartment and pound on her door in the middle of the night until she opens and he can take her in his arms and do all kinds of things to her. He has the goddamn drapes to thank for keeping him away from that impulse.

On the other hand, though, it makes him feel like a blind man every time she shuts them in front of his eyes. Not only because of his blatant desire to see her body, but because he feels excluded from an important part of her life.

Alone in her bedroom, she used to show herself to him at her most vulnerable state; naked and sensuous, yes, but also frightened, relaxed, asleep. She used to let her guard down, something she doesn't do in any other situation or place.

Now she blocks him from that part of her life; like she doesn't want him there.

 _She never wanted you there in the first place, stop pretending you're Rick. You mean nothing to her_. He sighs. That's not true, is it? All the signals she's sent him; those little times they've had together… they cannot mean nothing to her.

As he watches her get out of her Cadillac and head inside the building and back to her office, a sudden idea pops inside his head.

He knows about something that could cheer her up.

 _Yer being ridiculous._ Merle's voice screeches.

Daryl clenches his teeth, forcing it to shut up. He knows. Not like he can suppress his feelings anyway. And it's not like she isn't aware of them either.

So, what does he have to lose?

He gets out of the car and walks down the street until he reaches that shop he's been eyeing for a while. It is not that far away from her workplace, so she must know it. Besides, he doesn't want to leave her unprotected for long.

He enters and smiles at the plump lady behind the counter.

"How much fer that box a' bonbons, ma'am?"

 **-o-**

A soft knock on her door interrupts her from her work and she throws the pen away, irritated.

Can't they leave her be for once? It's already hard enough to concentrate, she doesn't need more distractions.

"Yes!" she asks a little too unkindly. The overweigh man opens the door slowly, sensing her annoyance.

"My apologies for interrupting, ma'am."

"Otis, I…" She starts as she sees the fear in his eyes. _Great, now I feel like a monster._ "I'm sorry, hard day and I have a lot to do. What is it?"

"Oh, a young man downstairs told me to give you this." He hands her a small manila packet and she takes it, confused.

"Did he say who he was?"

"No. But he said he hoped this would placate your blues." The breath gets caught in her throat at the realization.

"Oh." She fidgets with the small packet. "Thanks Otis."

"Was he one of your admirers, miss?" Otis asks, genuinely curious. She gives him a smile, but says nothing. "A beau, then?"

"I have to get back to work." Otis laughs like a jolly Santa and waves his hand at her.

"Fine then, don't tell me. I'll find out eventually."

After Otis exits her office, she un-wraps the packet and smiles as she takes a look at its content.

 _Daryl, you are so… perfect._

She sighs, the heaviness in her chest slightly dissipating. She opens the box and grabs one of the bonbons, eyeing it doubtfully.

"A few more of these and I'll never fit into that magenta dress again."

 **-o-**

She lays there on the couch, a copy of The Metamorphosis in her hands, which she's reading for the eleventh time.

'As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect-like creature.'

 _Makes two of us. Metaphorically, of course._

She snorts at that. Her life is not half as tragic as Gregor's worthless vermin-catastrophe.

 _But still pretty close to it._

Kafka's nihilism is not convenient for such grim times.

 _Maybe I should read Hemingway._

Horrible idea.

The truth is she's hardly paying any attention to the book anyways. It is the fourth time she reads the first sentence of the first chapter, trying to concentrate, and it is the fourth time she fails. She's got too much in her mind to focus: the will to keep her sad memories under control and the dilemma of what she should do to achieve that.

 _Well, reading is clearly not working._

Michonne sighs in defeat, leaving the book on the table.

Carnal desire boils in the back of her head, and with every attempt of suppression it just resurfaces with more strength. It is a mournful day and she's horny. She can understand why.

There are few things that still give her comfort during sad times. One of them is sex. Sex releases her endorphins; makes her forget the pain. It's one of the reasons why she got into an affair with Rick after her family died.

But now there is no Rick here. So what is she supposed to do?

 _You don't need a man for this_ ; a voice inside her head scolds her. She bites her lip. How long's it been since she touched herself? Quite long, she can't even remember the last time she did it; must be the lack of incentive. It is no news that she feels alone, but she prefers that feeling over getting wrapped up in her memories, which usually leads to her feeling worse. Her memories of sex are no different; every time she thinks of Mike she wants to cry, and every time she thinks of Rick instead, she feels guilty. How is she supposed to get it on if thinking of the men she loves makes her feel awful from the beginning?

She throws a look towards the window.

 _I wonder…_

She's pondered this the whole night. He's constantly on her mind, and the notion of his blue eyes watching her gives her goose bumps. In a good way; a very good way.

If he knocked on her door right now and she opened, if she kissed him and he kissed her back and both of them stumbled to the bedroom, undressed each other, made love to each other…

Maybe she could go to him instead. She knows the window to his apartment: Third floor, second door to the left. The things she would do to him… how she'd enjoy seeing ecstasy cloud those beautiful blue eyes…

She can see him against the dim light of his room. The blinds and the darkness only allow her to guess his silhouette. But it's enough to turn her on.

She sits up on the couch, her eyes firmly set on him, her lower lip caught between her teeth. She doesn't know how much time passes before the phone starts ringing.

 _Is he calling me?_

Maybe she doesn't need his fantasy. Maybe he wants her as much as she wants him right now. She turns around, gets up and picks up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hey." It _is_ him. She smiles at the sound of his voice.

"Dixon?"

"The one an' only."

"Hey." She looks out the window, unsure of the reason of his call. "Is there a problem?"

"Not really, I… I just wan'ed a' know how yer doing." Pause. "Ya seemed a lil worried today." She smiles at that.

"I'm fine. Just a little stressed out. Nothing to worry about."

"Ya sure?"

"Yeah."

"Ok."

"Thanks for the chocolate, by the way."

"Ya liked it?" She laughs.

"Mhm."

"I just found this lil' sweetshop this mornin' and I thought a' you, so…"

"That's sweet." She answers. "I plan on returning the favor, but I doubt I can get you good venison in the city. Would a rat be enough?" She hears him snort.

"What are ya? A cat?"

"I won't leave it on your window. Maybe wrap it up nicely and tell Rick to give it to you."

"Don'. He's dead scared a' them."

"I know that." He snorts at that.

"Well, if yer so determined, I hear the Central Station has pretty big ones. Ya can try yer luck there."

"Long stick or machete?"

"Newspaper works just fine." They laugh.

She pictures him watching through the blinds, messy and charming as always, with that brooding nervousness that makes him so irresistible.

 _What in the world are you doing to me, Daryl Dixon?_

She wonders whether she can truly lure him in and even though the notion of not being able to sounds ridiculous to some extent, it still manages to make her nervous.

"So, how are you doing?"

Her tone has become lower, plagued with desire; blatant enough to scare him away if he really wants to back down. She hopes he doesn't.

"Good." His voice is raspy as he answers.

"Good? Not great?" He gives her no answer and she waits a couple seconds before continuing. "I was thinking maybe you'd want to come over…" she lets the phrase linger, still looking out the window to his shadowy apartment.

"What for?"

 _You know what for._

"Talk?"

"Talk…" He answers, sceptic.

"Yeah. I'm… feeling kinda _lonely_ tonight." Silence.

"Is that right?" Her fingers play with her necklace, her head slightly tilted, her lust barely contained behind half-lidded eyes.

"Come over." She demands. A pause, he's considering it.

"No."

"Playing hard to get, aren't you?"

"Not really." She narrows her eyes in confusion.

"You want to?"

"Yeah."

"Then what? Are you scared of me?" Another long silence and she's worried he might hang up at any moment.

 _Don't run for the hills this time._

"We can't cross that line." He finally whispers.

 _Is there still a line to cross? Haven't we crossed it already?_

There is no professionalism left in this mission. From the first night, the barrier between both of them was broken.

But she's not going to push him if he doesn't want to be pushed. Not… too much, at least.

"I see. Alright, have a good night."

"Night."

Neither of them hangs up. They stay still, buying their time, listening to the other's breathing through the line. Finally, she makes up her mind.

"Dixon?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Are you watching?"

It is obvious he is.

"Yeah."

"Good. Don't close the blinds."

"I never do."

She hangs up, a smug smile on her lips, and walks towards the bedroom, turning the light of the night-table on. The room is barely lit by its spectral glow. Careful not to look towards the window, she takes off her shoes and jewelry; un-wraps her hair, letting it fall free down her shoulders.

The curtains are wide open. She throws one more look outside before turning her back to the window, reaching behind her and unzipping her dress slowly.

The fabric slides down her shoulders, her waist, her hips, and finally falls to the floor. She can feel his eyes on her and it arouses her. She snaps her garters free and rolls each stocking down her legs, as slowly as possible before opening the garter belt and letting it fall as well.

Is he fantasizing of touching her right now? How would his hands feel against her skin? His lips? How would he touch her? Would he dare to taste her? Bite her? Would he take control over her body? Let her set the rules? Would he make her come? Would he whisper her name as he comes?

Hot pictures fly through her head as she rests her body against the mattress, her eyes closed; her core on fire.

She hasn't been this aroused in a long time. Having him watch her only manages to make her hornier.

Maybe she can take this game a little farther. After all she's playing to win.

Her fingers sneak under her panties and start stroking the sensitive flesh between her legs. She handles them with skill, alternating between stroke and penetration; her body instinctively knowing what it wants. They are not her fingers touching her though; in her mind they are his. In her mind she can feel his hot breath against her stomach, his tongue tasting her.

She starts going faster, harder, and her feverish fantasy turns vivid... She keeps her eyes firmly shut as she pants and gasps in pleasure, thinking of him; of his manhood inside her and his sweaty skin against hers, and his mouth feasting on every crevice of her body.

 **-o-**

The curtains are open and she's there, letting him see as her body reacts to her own intimate touch. He watches insatiable, his whole body on fire, as she works herself, shakes and wriggles in pleasure. He watches her half-open lips and her eyes squeezed shut and he can almost hear her mewls of desire. He can almost see himself on top of her, doing to her what she's doing to herself. Stroking and kissing her until she comes undone, her skin shimmering with sweat.

Perhaps what turns him on the most is that she's doing this for him. She knows he's watching her, she knows how much he wants her. She's giving him this show willingly.

It takes all his willpower not to burst out the door and go to her. His need for her body, her lips, is there. But he can't bring himself to step away from the window. She's got him hypnotized with every touch of her fingers on her sensitive core.

He bites his knuckles as he sees her body arc in an orgasm and relax again, her chest heaving with exertion. After a pause to catch her breath, she accommodates herself under the blankets, free from her tension and ready to doze off. The same cannot be said about him.

He's hard as a rock and the last bit he has of decency has prevented him from doing something about it. Yet.

He knows he has to deal with a cold shower or else he'll never be able to sleep that night.

He curses under his breath. How cruel can this woman be? There is no way he can shake off this image anymore, no way of suppressing his impulses now. One more missed step and he will fall into her trap and lose himself in it like he did before, only to emerge even more damaged than last time.

She's fallen asleep. He can tell by the relaxed position of her body on the bed. He wonders how it must be like to sleep next to her, cradling her in his arms and listening to her soft breathing.

 _Rick, what a lucky bastard you were_. He thinks sourly.

He dreams of her that night. Long dreams of her dark skin trembling under his touch and her legs firmly wrapped around his hips as she rocks her body in time with his thrusts. He dreams of her screaming his name, he dreams of her lips, of her sweet, mesmerizing scent; of deep kisses and words of love and desire.

In his dreams, he's the happiest man on earth.

* * *

 _Wicked Game - Chris Isaak_

 _Horny describes Noir, among other things. But horny is at the top of the list. Every time you think of Noir, you instantly think of Boudoir, because Noir is the grandpa of boudoirish horniness. Everyone is horny in Noirs. Generally. The greatest part about it is that the erotic of Noir films is not shown (because at that time it was not permitted for cinemas to show nudity or explicit sex) but it's there in the atmosphere, in the undertones, in the dialogue and tension between characters._

 _My fic is a lot less subtle, though... as you can see._

 _So you, horny people, stay noir... ehem... or you, noir people, stay horny. Whatever suits you best._


	15. XV - Lay Down with Dogs

**XV. Lay Down with Dogs**

 _Merle..._

 _A distant ringing reaches his ears._

 _Merle... don't leave me, brother..._

 _Merle!_

Daryl wakes up to the insistent ringing of the phone.

He slowly gets up and reaches towards it, holding it against his ear.

"Hello?" He asks in a dopey voice.

"Daryl, goddammit! Pick up the phone quicker!" Rick's voice screeches on the other end of the line. Daryl senses the urgency in it and jumps awake.

"Sorry. What's going on?"

"I need you to get Michonne out of there and bring her here. Now!" Daryl's eyes narrow at that.

"Here where? What...?"

"Daryl... there is a freaking war going on out here. The Governor is running away and his men with him and they are killin' people back and forth! We've already found one of our informants dead and I doubt they will leave Michonne alone. So take her to the Police Station as quick as you can..."

"Police Station, got it."

"Daryl, wait, don't take the main ro..."

Daryl hangs up and runs out of the bed, looking for his pants.

 _Screw this mission._ After it's over he'll ask for a raise. He deserves it.

 **-o-**

She's been working the whole night, like old times. She feels strangely invigorated, maybe because she's so close to finishing this investigation, or maybe because of the urgency of saving Andrea.

In old times Mike would have surprised her by turning off the light on her desk and picking her up in his arms, forcing her inside the bed.

She grimaces at the sad memories.

Mike is no longer here to remind her of her beauty sleep anymore.

But it is still important she guesses.

As she gets up and stretches her weary muscles she hears sirens in the distance. They started ringing an hour ago and haven't stopped.

What could it be?

The phone rings, distracting her. Another late night call.

It could be Daryl, she thinks, telling her to stop fooling around and get into bed. Surely he must be pissed that she deprived him of his entertainment by staying up so late. Not that he would admit it. She picks up the phone with a sneaky smile on her lips.

"Hello?" The insistent whining on the other end of the line makes her smile drop. A female voice, and she recognizes it. "Andrea?! Andrea, is that you?" The sobs stop and a trembling voice answers.

"Yes, it's me."

"Andrea! Thank god you called me!" She instantly knows she's in danger. _Don't worry, you called me and I'll help you. I'll protect you, my friend._ "Now, calm down! Tell me where you are, I'll go find you!"

"It's too late. You won't get here before they do…"

"They who? What's going on?"

"Listen to me, he sent men after you tonight. I need you to get out of your apartment and drive to a police station."

"Andrea, where the flying fuck are you?!"

"I just want you to know that you were right… about everything. I tried to stop it, 'Chonne. I was just trying to stop it."

"Andrea!" Michonne screams through the phone. She cannot leave her like this. Andrea's her friend.

She hears a door open at the other end of the line, Andrea's breaths becoming ragged, and she's suddenly static.

They've come to kill her. They'll kill Andrea and there's nothing she can do to protect her.

"Andrea… is he there? Will he hurt you?"

Andrea takes a while to answer, but when she does her voice is completely calm. Almost as if she was accepting her situation.

"Remember Amy, Chonne? What I told you about her?" Michonne sucks the air in. Andrea's sister, a gangster's sweetheart killed by her boyfriend. A pretty, reckless hothead Andrea couldn't save; just like Michonne can't save her. "I was Amy this time, and I'm so sorry." Tears start falling down her eyes, her back resting against the wall, the phone glued to her ear. "I love you, Saphire."

"I… I love you too, Blondie."

Bang!

The phone slides from Michonne's hands and falls to the floor with a 'thud'.

She's gone.

Andrea's gone.

Just like Andre. Just like Mike.

 _And I couldn't do shit to protect her._

She slides down to the floor and cradles her knees against her chest, crying.

They are coming for her but she doesn't care anymore.

Minutes pass and the light of the morning starts creeping inside the apartment. The sirens never stop ringing.

A loud bang on the door. _Is it them?_

It flies open and a man storms in, looking around. He finds her. But instead of taking a gun out, he crouches next to her and shakes her.

"Michonne… Michonne…" she recognizes his voice, but can't quite pinpoint who he is. He seems to be screaming something at her, she looks up and he's startled by her expression.

Slap!

The soft hit brings her back to her senses.

"Michonne! I'm sorry for hitting ya goddammit! But we need'a get out'ta here!" It's Daryl. And he's right.

She can't let that son of a bitch win this war so easily.

He pulls her to her feet and takes her hand, dragging her along with him. They run down the stairs and out the door.

Bang!

"Damnit!" He holds her against his body, covering her from the bullets as he takes out his own revolver and shoots. They both run to his car and he pushes them inside. "It's always go hard or go home with ya, ain' it?!" He asks as another bang hits the back of the car.

The black Plymouth follows them a little too close as they zigzag down the street, trying to evade the bullets.

"There's a shotgun in the back!" Daryl screams at her as he hears another bang, "If you would be so kind!" She ignores his condescendence and turns around in her seat, reaching towards the gun. A sudden turn almost throws her against the windshield, but this is not the time to insult the driver. "Ya make dem bullets count! Ya hear me?!"

"You don't have to tell me!" She rolls down the window and peaks outside, aiming the shotgun at the driver of the car behind her.

Bang!

Missed. Shit.

She goes back inside and charges again.

"I said make 'em count!"

"Your fucking driving isn't making that possible!"

Daryl opens his mouth to answer but something on the road makes him widen. Michonne turns to look just as he turns his car so abruptly he falls against her. She registers the barricade of cars in front of her and the ultraviolet lights.

"Get down!" Daryl's arms drag her down with him just as a storm of gunshots that drowns every other sound around them starts.

The noise is sure to make their ears bleed, as the window behind Daryl explodes, crystals flying allover them. They are in the middle of a shooting, Michonne realizes. Between a barricade of patrollers and a car filled with gangsters.

 _We are such lucky bastards._

Her hands instinctively clutch Daryl's shirt and he presses her head to his chest. She can hear the rapid beating of his heart. She can also smell and feel his body against hers.

It gives her… comfort.

The gunshots stop and both lie there, not sure of what is to come now.

"Police! Get out of the car!" The door on Daryl's side opens and they look up only to see a young policeman pointing at them with a shotgun. Daryl gets off her quickly.

"Ya hurt?" He asks her. His hand flies to her cheek, the one he softly hit to snap her out of her stupefaction. The police officer behind him is not so happy to be ignored.

"Don't move! Hands up!" Daryl turns, annoyed.

"Glenn, it's me; Dixon." The young man lowers his gun when he recognizes him.

"Daryl!" He turns to the other policemen. "It's alright! He's one of ours!"

Michonne looks through the cracks of her window, which has been damaged by a gunshot. The car in which the gangsters were driving is pierced by tons of gunshots and she can see dark silhouettes lying on the floor.

As Daryl helps her get out of the car, the policeman, a young man of Korean descend named Glenn who's apparently very fond of 'Dixon', gives them a report on the situation.

The police received a phone call that night from an anonymous witness who told them the Governor was planning on leaving the city, so they mobilized every single unit they had to chase the members of his Gang though the streets and make an attempt at finding him. Up until now they have had little to no luck with the latter, but a third of his men have been taken down or into custody.

There is report of a couple assassinations having taken place before all hell broke loose; most likely little informants to the Governor or witnesses of the actions of the Woodbury Gang.

"I suppose she's one of them, isn't she?" Glenn asks Daryl, eyeing Michonne suspiciously.

"She's the prosecutor who would've won the case against the Governor."

"Oh, dear. Now I get why he sent eight men after her." Daryl signals towards the gangster's car and the bodies.

"There were two cars followin' us."

"One managed to escape. But they won't get very far I suspect. We have blocked every route outside the city."

"Smart boys. And ya…" He puts his hand on Glenn's shoulder. "got some balls fer a chinaman." He says mockingly. Glenn rolls his eyes.

"I'm korean, Daryl."

"Whatever." They both snort. "I need'a get her to the police station until this craziness is over."

"I'll drive you, we're done here anyways." Glenn points his head towards the woman, who's walking a few steps away from them, still looking at the gangster's car. "Watch out you don't lose her." Daryl turns to follow her, but Glenn taps his shoulder, making him turn back. "She your new babe?" The man gives him a look.

"Don' be silly."

"Just asking." He says with a wink.

Daryl walks towards Michonne, who's still eyeing the car, sorrow and rage crossing her features. He approaches her carefully and puts a hand on her crossed arms, making her jump.

"We need'a go to the police station. That alright?" She sighs and turns her head away from him. Daryl furrows his brows. "Hey, everythin' alright?"

She takes a while to answer.

"Andrea's dead." He looks at her in shock.

"That friend a yers?" Michonne nods. It all makes sense now. The phone on the floor, Michonne's shock… She presses her forehead against his chest all of a sudden, clearly looking for comfort from the nearest person she can find. An impulse makes him put his hand on her head and stroke her hair. Time after she straightens herself, a tear streaming down her cheek. _Hate to see women cry_. His hand instinctively reaches towards her face and wipes it clean. Takes a while and a surprised look from her for him to realize how bold that move was. "Come on."

He takes her hand and guides her to the patroller across the street. Glenn is waiting for them. He opens the door for Michonne to get in and looks at Daryl with a sneaky smile as he climbs in next to her.

"I'm not silly." He hears him say.

* * *

 _Hurricane - 30 Seconds to Mars_

 _I know what you are thinking._

 _Daryl slapping a woman?! How could you?! You'll hear from my lawyer!_

 _It's not because he was mad at her and wanted to hurt her; a slap is usually used as a technique to snap people out of shock or hysterical situations (and no, I didn't get that knowledge from the movie Airplane, it actually is used to get people who are in shock or an hysterical state to react). Another technique is throwing a bucket of cold water on the person's head, but Daryl had no time to do that._

 _Considering the time period and the amount of slaps women receive in Noir films (aka poor Evelin from Chinatown) in this situation it is remarkable that Daryl had the sense to apologize._

 _Still, my apologies for the gender-violence anyways. It was necessary to set the tone of urgency and shock of the scene. Won't happen again, promise._


	16. XVI - Forget it, it's Chinatown

**XVI. Forget it, it's Chinatown**

As they enter the police station, Daryl stops dead in his tracks. In front of him, talking to Rosita and dressed in a very nice burgundy dress, is a woman he thought he would never see again.

"Pookie!" She runs to him and embraces him, and he is far too shocked and confused to prevent it. He is far too shocked and confused to catch Michonne's stare fixed on the two of them. "They said you were in the middle of a shooting! I thought you might be... oh, thank god you're fine!"

„Carol…" He grabs her shoulder and pushes her away, looking her up and down as if he couldn't believe his eyes.

"Yes, it's me. Are you alright?" She strokes his face lovingly.

"What ya doin' 'ere, Cherokee rose?" Carol opens her mouth to answer, but then notices the woman behind him and the way his hand holds hers protectively.

"Miss Johnson." She greets in an unusually cold manner. Michonne answers with a curt nod, her hand disentangling from his.

"Excuse me." She walks right past them and Daryl tries to stop her, but Carol's hands clutch his shoulders tightly.

"No, wait! I have to know what happened to you! Why are you involved in all this?" the man sighs. He could ask her the same question. Actually, he has a ton of questions to ask her. But he figures this is not the right time.

"Why are _ya_ here?"

"One of my girls was on the inside; I need to know if she's still alive." She narrows her eyes at Michonne's retreating figure. "Do you know her?"

"Yes, I'm protectin' her. Now, excuse me, angel, I need'a find Abraham."

 **-o-**

 _Her name was Carol and she was the most beautiful woman in that place…_

This Carol was it? Of course, it had to be. How many gorgeous underground jazz-singers named Carol are there in this world? Michonne clenches her teeth at that. She doesn't know what makes her angrier: the fact that her insides froze with guilt at the sight of her, the fact that Daryl's old sweetheart is a woman she knows or the way he reacted to finding his old flame again.

Cause she could see that expression on his face as soon as he spotted the singer and she knows it well. He still loves her. Bet he thinks of her all the time; bet he has a memory of her body and her features and her touch printed in his head; bet he wishes she could come back to him. Which is why he didn't even stop her or run away when he saw her approach him.

This is why he's refused her so many times. Crossing the line, breaking the boundaries of professionalism was just an excuse he used in order to hide from her that his heart actually belongs to a white jazz-singer with the voice of an angel and a sex appeal capable of alluring a priest.

She feels so stupid right now.

She spots Maggie talking to the korean policeman from earlier. The brunette widens as she sees her and runs up to her, squishing her in an embrace.

"Thank god you're fine!"

"What are you doing here? Did you get attacked too?"

"No, but I'm one of the prosecutors, so the police thought…"

"Better safe than sorry." Glenn interrupts. "They killed more than a couple informants last night. The witness prevented the police to make sure all possible targets were rescued before it was too late. In some cases, it was." Glenn smiles at Maggie. "In a way I am glad this happened." Both women give him a dirty look. "I mean… that came out wrong… I'm just saying I'm glad I met you…"

"You need more practice with your pick-up lines." Maggie answers cheeky and Glenn rubs his hands nervously. "What was your name again?" Michonne rolls her eyes at the boy's dazed expression. He likes her, poor soul.

A hand on her back makes her turn around. Daryl is there, and he cocks his head towards the alley, signaling for her to follow him.

"Excuse me for a second, Maggie." The girl seems not to mind, distracted as she is with flirting. Michonne reaches Daryl and he wraps an arm around her, pressing her against his side.

"They're bringing the bodies a' the victims to the morgue; the siege appears to be over." He stops dead in his tracks. "The anonymous informant… was a woman. They tracked her call and found her dead as well. One a' the first victims."

"And she knew she would be." Michonne finishes, her arms wrapped around her waist. "She was ready to die."

"We don' know if it is yer friend yet." She doesn't either, but her gut tells her it is.

"I know."

Daryl's arms fly around her and hold her tightly. She corresponds his hug, burying her face on his neck. She's not sure whether his rapid heartbeat is from having her so close or from having almost died out there.

 _Maybe it is Carol._

The presumption leaves a foul taste in her mouth.

"I'm sorry about your car." She mumbles against his shirt, not knowing what else to say. She always says stupid stuff after a shock. Which is why she prefers to remain quiet.

"It's an old car." His comment makes her smile.

 _Why do you have to make me feel this way?_

She's tired of falling for men who have the capacity to console her. They always end up destroying her regardless.

Her head jolts up, just millimeters away from his. He leans in and plants his lips against her cheek, which, she now realizes, is wet.

"Yer cryin' again. Hate ta see ya cry." He mumbles. She reaches towards his lips, wanting to kiss him.

Perhaps he can give her one chance? Perhaps she can erase Carol from his mind, replace her…

That's a horrible thing to do to a fellow colleague. But it just seems so unfair. Lately there's always a more perfect woman for every man Michonne falls in love with: if it's not a blonde Jessie, it's an enticing Carol. And they are always waiting to take what's hers away from her hands as soon as she screws up. She's in love with Daryl. What right does Carol have to take this away from her?

 _What right do you?_

She tilts her head to the side, her nose grazing his cheek, when Rick's voice resonates in the hallway like thunder.

"Dixon!"

Daryl jumps away from her as if someone had just punched him.

She turns to her old flame, who is now approaching them followed by ole' good Abraham. She can sense the frost in the atmosphere just by looking at Rick's glacial expression.

 _Danger ahead. This is not good._

"We were worried 'bout you, boy." Abraham comments as he reaches both of them, clearly trying to lower the tension in the atmosphere. "And look who's back! Troublemaker number one, how you doing?" It doesn't work. Rick still looks like he wants to murder someone. Whether that someone be Daryl or her is not yet clear.

"Michonne, you stay here. Dixon, you come with me. Glenn!" Rick roars through the hallway and the young policeman comes running, waving at Maggie.

 **-o-**

"You got a cigarette, Abraham? I need one right now." Rick asks as they enter his office.

"I don' smoke, sarg."

"I'm no sarg. Glenn?"

"Sorry, don't smoke either."

"I got one." Daryl reaches towards his pocket, but Rick's heartless stare makes him stop.

"Save it, Dixon." He spits, hateful.

 _Holy fuck._

Daryl gulps, feeling Abraham and Glenn's stares set on him.

"He's Abraham and he's Glenn, but I'm Dixon. Is that how it is?"

"Yes, that's how it is. It's the last time I trust you enough to call you by name. From now on, my reliance in you is gone." The words hit him like a slap to the face.

"Sorry, I don' get shit. What exactly did I do for ya to…?"

"Don't trifle with me, jerk!" Rick roars, making the other three men jump.

"Mother dick…" Abraham whispers.

"Miss Margaret Greene told us about the case Michonne and her were building against the Governor. The biggest clues were a set of documents suspiciously given to them by a loan shark. He was a close worker to Blake. We found his body a few weeks ago. Ain't that right, Glenn?"

"Y-yes…" The boy stutters.

"So it seems." Daryl comments, and not a second later Rick is up in his personal space.

"How did she get the documents?" No response. "Answer me!"

"He gave 'em to her."

"Before or after he shot himself in the head?!" Daryl's eyes are firmly set on Rick's. "Gunshots were heard by the neighbors that night, more than once; quite unusual given the fact that he was dead long before the Woodbury Gang got there, which means they weren't shooting at him. They were shooting at the reckless daredevil who got inside his apartment and stole that black briefcase!"

"Where are you going with this?" Glenn asks, on the periphery.

"Stay outta it, boy." Daryl tells him.

"She went there that night. Didn't she?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you stop her?" Daryl gulps. "That was your job! Why didn't you tell me?!"

"I kept her safe."

"Kept her safe?! You let her put herself in danger! You… obsolete…"

"Rick, Rick, get away from him." Abraham puts his hand on Rick's shoulder, making him back down. "Brother, you know Michonne; she could talk a cat out of a tree!"

Rick shakes free of Abraham's hand, clearly not done.

„I should've done this myself. This is what I get for letting worthless agents like you handle my business!"

"Rick, calm yourself man!" Abraham intervenes, but it's too late. The damage of his words is done and Daryl takes a step towards his boss.

"I did what ya asked me, Rick! Nothin' more than what ya asked!"

"I told you to keep your distance and notify me of any reckless behavior! This woman goes downtown to kill herself and you just follow her around like a hound dog!"

"I saved 'er life three times, ya asshole!"

"You wouldn't have had to if you had obeyed me, ignorant hillbilly!" Daryl lunges towards Rick, but Abraham's strong arm stops him.

"Hold it right there!"

"Let go a' me! This man's accusin' me a' bein' there fer his woman when he himself couldn' do shit fer her! He couldn' even save his own wife when her life was on the line…!"

Rick throws himself at him, pushing him against the desk, and Daryl bounces back, ready to punch his boss in the face, when Glenn gets in the middle.

"Hey! Hey! Take it easy! Daryl, apologize to Rick, now!"

Daryl takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself. He cannot lose his job because of this woman; he must keep a cool head.

"Listen, I'm sorry for what I said 'bout Lori, but I ain' sorry 'bout Michonne. If she ain' gotten those documents the Governor would still be in this city and still tryna kill her…"

"He's right, Rick." Glenn intervenes. "Maggie says the documents would've won them the case had they made it to the prosecution. He ran away because they had him trapped."

Rick breaks free from Glenn's grasp and starts pacing.

 _He wants to kill me._ Daryl realizes.

This has nothing to do with her safety. This has to do with him and her.

"She's safe now, brother… that's all that matters. I promised ya she would be safe in my hands…" Before Abraham or Glenn can react, Rick grabs Daryl by the neck and pushes him against the wall.

Both men lunge forward, but Daryl stops them with a hand.

"Safe in your hands? Your hands?!"

"Ya misunderstand me…"

"Do I? Really Daryl? What was it you said about her? What was it you meant?! She's quite a woman, huh? Not that big a mistake, hard to ignore, my sweetheart! You think I'm an idiot?!"

"Calm down, it ain' what ya think…"

"I see how you look at her, motherfucker! How you tried to kiss her!" S _he tried to kiss me_. "That's my woman!"

"She ain't! Not 'nymore!" Daryl growls grabbing Rick's shirt as well. The poison in his friend's eyes is lethal. Danger of this friendship being ruined forever, but Daryl doesn't care. Rick left her; he wanted to get over her. He told him that. If he's trying to reclaim her now, it's too late.

 _She belongs with me. You put her in my way, you cannot take her from me now._

"Cut it out, you two!" Michonne's voice resonates in the room and Daryl can see the woman trying to make her way past Abraham. "Rick! Let him go!"

"Mich, please, stay out of this…"

"Hands off, Sergeant!" She demands and Abraham puts his hands in the air with a sigh. "Rick! Let. Him. Go. Now!"

She forces herself between Rick and Daryl, pushing them off each other. Rick's hand still clutches Dary's shirt tightly as he turns to her.

"Listen to Abraham for once in your life, woman! This is between me and him!"

"Cut the macho bullshit! If it has to do with me it is not just between you and him! Let. Him. Go!" She grabs his hand, forcing it away. "He did what he was told, Rick! I was the irresponsible one, not him!" Michonne sighs before letting go of Daryl's shoulder and putting her hands on Rick's face, forcing him to look at her. "And there's nothing going on between us, nothing at all. Ok, love?"

 _Love._

Her words seem to have a soothing effect on the man, bringing him from brutal to calm in just a second.

"I just… I was afraid I…"

"I know… I'm fine."

"Yes. Yes, you are, angel." He hugs her tightly in front of the others. Glenn is still confused as hell by the whole situation, Abraham is not surprised in the slightest, Daryl just watches the scene, his fists closing tightly.

He can sense the adoration between them.

 _Love._

He suddenly feels like an idiot; that idiot who got in between his best friend and this woman, just like Shane did years ago.

 _She's not your woman anymore_. That's what he told Rick _._

But maybe she is. Maybe they are not ready to let go of the other yet.

That's the reason why Michonne started seducing him, right? Because she thought he was Rick.

He's nothing but a third wheel in this whole thing.

Rick pulls away from her and watches her intently.

"Are you ok? You're shaking like crazy."

Michonne does not answer right away, so Daryl takes it from there.

"She lost a friend." His voice is shaky with rage and defeat.

Rick turns to look at him and then goes back to her.

"Andrea?" she nods and he hugs her again. For a moment, the room is silent, the tension from the fight quickly receding, being replaced by discomfort. Abraham's hand on his shoulder forces Daryl to back away from Rick and Michonne. He does so, his senses numbed by the heartbreak.

 _Fool_. Merle's voice laughs at him.

"You might wanna take her home, sarg. Get some rest, you two. I'll take care of things here." Abraham turns to him. "And you… got work to do. Come on."

As they all exit Rick's office, Rosita comes running towards them, calling for Abraham and Rick. She stops when she sees Michonne.

"Johnson! Nice to see you back!"

"What is it, sugar?" Abraham asks.

"The bodies are here." Michonne's head shoots up and in a second she's wrenched free from Rick's grasp and is running down the hall.

"Michonne!" Rick and Daryl call in awe before following her.

"Mother dick!" Daryl hears Abraham curse as he rushes past him. Once he reaches the hall of the morgue, he hears a scream.

 _Carol._

What the fuck is going on? He stops when he sees for himself.

Michonne and Carol are standing on each side of a corpse on one of the autopsy tables. Carol is wailing, but Michonne is just looking at it with dead eyes, her arms tightly wrapped around herself. Daryl catches the sight of the woman on the table, dead blue eyes staring at nothing, before taking Carol in his arms. He presses her head against his chest, trying to stop her from seeing it. The vision reminds him of Sophia and he knows it does the same for her. Carol swallows her tears before turning violently to Michonne, wrenching free from Daryl's grasp.

"That's Andrea!"

 _Oh... makes sense now._

"Carol…"

"She's dead?! You knew she was dead?!" Michonne's gaze is still fixed on the body, her trembling fingers slightly touching Andrea's pale cheek. Carol takes a step towards her.

Slap!

"Carol!" Daryl takes the woman by the waist, separating her from Michonne, who falls against Rick, a hand on her cheek, her eyes wide like plates.

"You bitch!" Carol screams. "You promised she would be safe!"

Rick puts his arms around Michonne, protecting her. That doesn't stop her from exploding too.

"I promised she would if she listened to me!" she screams back. "But she just had to…" her voice breaks and her eyes fill with tears. Carol is not moved in the slightest.

"You got her into this mess! It is the last time you get a contact out there, I'll make sure to that!"

"Ok, Carol, calm down! You're clearly in shock and she is too…!" Rick tries to intervene.

 _Ah, the irony._

"Look. At. Her. Rick! She's dead! She trusted you!" Her finger points accusingly at Michonne. "I hope you realize what you just did!"

"It is not her fault that Andrea was murdered!" Daryl jumps in immediately. Carol turns to him, indignant, and scoffs in disbelief as her eyes go from him to Michonne, clearly aware of what's going on between them.

 _Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned._

"So, this is what your type does!" She comments.

"My type?!" Michonne screams, outraged. Daryl holds Carol's arm, preventing her from lunging against the other woman again.

"Your type of woman, yes! You might wanna keep to one man before you ruin another friendship! You harlot!" She tells Michonne.

"Carol!" Daryl screams.

"You watch your mouth, table dancer!"

"Enough!" Rick's roar silences the entire hall. He pulls from Michonne's arm a little too hard and Daryl insults him silently. "Come on, let's go."

They pull both women off each other and Daryl watches his boss drag Michonne through the hallway, before turning to Carol.

"The hell's wrong with ya?!"

"What's wrong with me?! She's guilty for Andrea's death, she insulted me and on top of that she's playing you and Rick at the same time! That...!"

"She ain' plain' with anyone, it ain' her fault, and ya insulted her first!"

"Oh, Daryl, you sentimental fool! I know women like that! She's nothing but bad news wrapping you around her little finger!"

"Don' ya pull this shit on me right now! Ya disappear for an entire year, leavin' me here to wonder what the flyin' fuck happened to ya, an' now ya come back out a nowhere and yer jealous?!" Carol is taken aback by his outburst and the action makes her calm herself. She turns towards the hall with a hint of remorse in her petite features. "Ya can ask fer her forgiveness another time. Right now, ya should go back home an' relax. These ain' no easy news for nobody."

"What about you?" She asks, worried. Daryl sighs.

"I got work to do."

"You could always come with me…"

"No." She's taken aback by his refusal, but accepts it nonetheless. As he turns his back on her he feels her hand sneak under his arm and deposit something inside his pocket. He turns to her as she takes a few steps back.

"In case you wanna talk." She says before walking away.

He looks inside his pocket, taking the small rectangle of paper out.

A business card to a gin joint called The Cell. He smiles sadly at that.

 _Guess she's singing again._

* * *

 _Take Care - Drake ft. Rihanna_

 _ _Holy shit this chapter was a headache! Spent four days writing and re-writing it in order to squish in all the Drama and yet manage to not make it a soap-opera. If you think it is too convoluted, let me know. I myself am not entirely sure. I know the redactation is a little rough, but trust me, I've edited it six times. This must be the hardest one I've had in this entire Story.__


	17. XVII - Do you Remember?

**XVII. Do you Remember**

The door closes behind her making her jump. Just as she's turning around Rick's hands touch her shoulders, traveling down her arms and back up.

"It's alright now." He whispers in her ear. Her hands travel to the buttons of the coat he lend her, opening it slowly. He helps her get out of it and she steps away from him immediately, walking towards the couch and sitting.

She feels cold despite the warm atmosphere in her apartment. Shivers still travel down her back at the memory of Andrea's corpse lying on that table; cold and stiff, the bullet hole in her temple, dead blue eyes staring right at her.

 _Carol's right._

Rick sits next to her, his arms around her looking to comfort her. He pushes her into an embrace she doesn't correspond. His hand strokes her hair and his nose grazes her cheek and yet she is barely conscious of how close he is.

"It's alright now, love. This ain't your fault."

Her eyes stare into space, remembering Andrea's scared voice through the phone. She was the last person Blondie talked to.

A tear rolls down her cheek again. She furiously cleans it with the back of her hand, turning her head away from Rick. Crying won't bring her Blondie back. Nor will feeling sorry for herself.

 _Keep your shit together._

"I'm fine." She answers forcefully. Rick's arms give her comfort but she needs to be alone. A situation like this with such company can lead to an even worse mistake.

The man is not convinced.

"You want me to stay?" Her eyes widen and she turns to him.

 _What?_

"N-no…"

"It's no problem for me." _Yes it is. It is a huge problem for both of us._

"You don't have to…" He shushes her with a kiss.

"I want to."

 _No, you don't._

"Rick…" she tries to push him away, but he's stubborn. He takes her face in between his hands and kisses her hard, forcing his tongue inside her mouth.

For a second she forgets she's trying to stop him. The memories of their affair are too strong and sweet… she's missed him and he's missed her. She's missed his body, the scent of his skin, the way his lips claim dominance over her and the way she can't fight them, the way she's letting him win… She twists her head to the side as he pushes her against the couch, his body on top of hers, grinding against her. She moans. His lips devour her neck and her hands clutch his shoulders, not knowing if they should push him away or pull him closer.

"I miss you, love." He whispers. _I miss you too._ "I've missed you for so long…" She kisses him. "Let me make love to you."

His hands travel up her legs, stroking the skin of her thighs, snapping her garters open…

She stops.

What is she doing? She can't do this to him. He can't do this to her.

This is over. He's contradicting everything he's said and done to this point by wanting to keep this affair alive.

 _Why, my love? Aren't you the one who wanted to get over me?_

It suddenly dawns on her. The fight he just had with Daryl, how he looked especially pissed by the way his friend held her in his arms…

Jealousy.

He feels threatened by Daryl; he's trying to reclaim what's his.

"Rick… stop." She pleads, but he seems not to listen. His hands touch her in between her thighs and she knows she's getting wet... _No_. "Rick! Enough! Get off me!"

She pushes him violently and he gets off, looking at her with a shocked expression.

"Did I hurt you?" She gets up from the couch, straightens her skirt down and walks to the kitchen, as far away from him as possible. "Michonne?" She hears him call. She takes a glass out of the cupboard and fills it with water. As she's sipping it he comes inside the kitchen and she can guess his confusion.

"I'm fine, you should leave." She says, as calm as possible. He doesn't obey her, instead coming closer and his grabbing her ass with his hands. She turns around and pushes him away again. "No! Leave!"

"Why?! You got another man now?!" He snaps and she looks at him like a deer in headlights.

"No."

"Really? Cause Daryl and you seemed quite happy huddled against each other this morning!"

Her suspicions were right.

"Is that what this is about? You're really letting jealousy get the best of you?!"

She can understand why this is happening. He's lived this before. In his mind, Daryl is Shane and Michonne is Lori. And he is about to lose them both.

"I love you! You belong to me!"

"No. I. Don't!" Rick can be menacing as fuck when he wants to and this is one of those times in which she can see the icy anger in his eyes; _Danger ahead_. "Rick, please… I don't wanna fight now…" She tries to get away, but his hands hold her forearms tightly, keeping her in place.

"You don't wanna fight, huh? Well, maybe you should've thought of that earlier before you started playin' around with my best friend…"

"Rick, stop!"

"What exactly is your relationship with him? Huh?" His fingers grab her a little too tightly and she feels like she's shrinking in his presence.

"You're hurting me…" She whispers.

"Are you sleeping with him?" She doesn't answer and he comes very close to her. "Answer me! Are you sleeping with him?!"

"NO!" She screams. "No, and if I was it would be none of your business cause this... Thing... between us is over!"

"Over..." He scoffs, releasing her. "Over like there ever was something going on. Like you ever loved me!"

"Don't pull that bullshit on me, you know very well how much I loved you. How much I still love you." Rick looks at her. "But we can't keep doing this! We are only destroying each other!"

"We can't because you don't want to!" He spits back. "Because you run away with your tail between your legs before you can get hurt! Well, let me tell you something, you're hurting yourself by doing that!"

"You just see me as a sexual replacement for your wife."

"No! No I don't, I never did! I loved you, woman, I wanted to build a future with you!"

"I remember the moment you ran away straight into the arms of some pretty widow and left he hanging!"

"I did it cause I could see it in your eyes that you no longer loved me!"

"Clearly! Because I didn't keep on coming back to your house just with the excuse of seeing Carl and helping you with Judith and putting my life on the line every time you asked me to!" He stops like he's just understood the meaning of her words and looks down, shame crossing his features. He realizes he's misunderstood the whole situation.

"I thought you… what you said to me…"

"About me needing time?" Michonne interrupts him. "I had just lost my family, Rick. What did you expect? You were pushing me too much, putting Judith in my arms and Carl and…" she sighs, trying to contain her tears. "It was egoistic of you to think… I would heal that fast."

The silence stretches between them and they slowly comprehend how doomed this love was from the beginning.

"I'm sorry."

"You ask for too much too quick... and I can't give it to you. I'm not the woman you need. We are not good for each other." Michonne swallows. "And you know that, Rick. Why did you send Daryl on this mission? Why not do it yourself? You know why. It's because you wanted to get over me." Rick flinches, his eyes starting to water. "Cause there's nothing left we can do to save this... this affair. It was lovely, Rick, it made me feel alive again. But it happened in the wrong place, at the wrong time and between the wrong people."

It's not her fault, nor his either. She cannot blame him for wanting his family back, he cannot blame her for not wanting the same.

It's just how things are.

Rick takes out two cigarettes from an almost complete box and lights a match.

"You said you don't smoke anymore." He snorts, sad, and after a while says:

"I said I don't smoke as much as Daryl."

"He's a goddamn steam-train." Rick looks back at her, his expression unreadable.

"Is there really nothing going on between you two?" She swallows hard.

Something could've happened. Something was very close to happening, but it didn't. They were always so close and so far at the same time, sharing that rare intimacy and yet having windows, blinds and a street separating them.

"No." It's the truth.

He offers her one cigarette and they both sit back on the couch, his arm friendly wrapped around her shoulders.

"You remember when we first met, love?" He starts. "I had just been raised to detective back then."

"And you were a mess." She mocks.

"Yes I was." They both laugh. "I heard of this new transferred agent and that I would have to train her and I remember thinking 'god, how tedious this will be'." She threw her head back in laughter.

"Very tedious! Staying till late hours in the office..."

"And sometimes extra-time in your apartment..."

"We were crazy."

"Yeah."

"I remember when I first saw you. You came through those doors..."

"And there you were, carrying your gear in your hand like a good girl, holding onto the fence, that sad look in your eyes." He looks at her through the smoke. "You were quiet and gloomy and so freaking beautiful…" She smiles at him.

"I fell in love with you right away." It's true. There was a time in which she would've done anything for him. Anything he asked her.

 _Anything except going steady._

"Of all the police-departments in all the states in all the world, you walk into mine."

"Bad luck?"

"The worst." They both laugh.

She guides him to the door a few hours later. It is getting late and he has to check on Carl and his little ass-kicker.

"Daryl gave her that name." Michonne giggles.

"What happened to Jessie?" She asks him, conscious of the fact that he hasn't mentioned her.

"She's gone. Too much of a silly housewife for me."

"Wasn't that exactly what you wanted?" He laughs.

"I want a woman like you. Maybe I still have a chance of getting her." Michonne kisses him on the forehead before opening the door.

"Thanks for bringing me back." Rick's hand grazes her chin and looks at her with melancholy in his eyes. "Goodbye, Rick."

"Goodbye, my love."

* * *

 _Do you remember - Ane Brun_


	18. XVIII - Farewell, my Cherokee Rose

_Reason why this chapter's so long is because it was composed of two at first. Enjoy!_

* * *

 **XVIII. Farewell, My Cherokee Rose**

 _Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned._

She finds it odd to have Carol at her door. Especially after the way they both treated each other the last time they met.

She's ashamed of what she said to her, and knowing Carol she's sure the woman is too. But she doesn't really want to talk to her or set things right after what happened. It may be jealousy for Daryl; it may be that deep inside she does feel guilty for what happened to Andrea.

She did tell Carol that Andrea would be fine, and even though it is true Blondie put herself in unnecessary danger by falling in love with Philip, it was Michonne the one who was unable to protect her from him.

All her investigation feels worthless after last night. Philip was never captured, her friend is dead…

And Daryl is no longer here. She doubts she will ever see him or Rick again.

 _So much for wanting to start over._

Maybe she should leave the city. Continue her chase for Philip, find his new haven and finish what she started. These are heavy musings she's wrapped into and she is not in the mood to deal with the flame of the man she so wildly fancies now.

She lets her in, anyway. Carol's eyes are filled with regret as she sits on the armchair next to the couch. Just as she's suspected, she comes to apologize.

 _A simple phone-call would have sufficed._

"You want a tea or something?"

"No tea, thank you. But I would accept you a scotch and soda."

"I only have cheap whisky and ice."

"It'll do." Michonne pours her a glass and the dame thanks her with a smile. "I wanted to apologize…"

"Me too…"

"It was uncalled for…"

"No. It wasn't. I'm the one who misbehaved. Had no reason to insult you…"

"Table-dancer is no insult if you were one at some point." Carol whispers lowly. Silence. "I don't blame you for Andrea's death. I mean, technically, I did, but I realize it was a stupid outburst caused by the despair. It's not your fault." Michonne gulps. "You know that, right?"

"I told her she would be safe."

"Yes, if she listened to you. But she didn't." Carol's hand reaches towards hers and takes it. "I've lost a daughter, Michonne. I let her out of my sight for one second and in the next she was gone. I know how that guilt feels like. But it's not your fault." She crosses her legs, leaning against the armchair. "I knew Andrea for far longer than you; during the days when Dale was still chief of police, and he had a soft spot for her; constantly keeping her out of trouble. But even despite that, she was a reckless, reckless girl. After her sister died she became even worse. I refused to say it out loud; for fear that she might misinterpret me. But I knew her ways would get her killed one day. I wasn't wrong." Silence. "She came to me after you two had that fight. Told me she loved Philip, asked me what she should do. I tried to convince her that those types of men are dangerous, told her to kill him while she still could. But she didn't listen to me."

"You told her to kill him?"

"I told her to give him the best night of his life. That's what men like him love the most: when a woman gives them what they want on her own accord. That's when they let their guard down. Think things like 'she's crazy about me'. And once they do the woman must think fast; she must grab the knife or the revolver and crush their brains against the pillow."

"Is that what you did, Carol?"

"I thought about it more than once, but I didn't have the strength. My biggest mistake was to wait until Ed attacked me again to kill him. Maybe if I hadn't, my daughter would still be alive." Michonne nods to that, lighting a cigarette.

"We are not so different, you and I." She holds the match for Carol when she sees her take out a cigarette for herself.

"Your kid died in the cradle?" Michonne nods. "I'm truly sorry." The singer bites her lip. "The pain of losing a son… is something I'll never wish to anyone."

Michonne swallows hard. Yes, it is something she wouldn't wish to anyone either. No matter how much she hates them. It's not just normal pain. A son is part of a mother. Her reason to live. Her happiness. And if the child dies all of those things die with him.

For long after Andre died, Michonne was completely and utterly muted. Even in situations in which she needed to communicate herself, she found out she was unable to. She felt so dead she was incapable of talking, a dead person who kept on walking. Dragging her husband's and son's memories like corpses behind her.

Even suicide seemed too kind of an option. Numb and ambivalent to this world, Michonne decided she was not worth the relief.

She doesn't, even to this day.

"He's quite taken with you."

"Who?" Carol's eyes delve into hers.

"Daryl. He likes wrecked women; women he feels he can protect."

"No one needs to protect me."

"He likes that too: When a woman's in deep shit and yet refuses his help." Michonne narrows her eyes at that, but there's no threat in Carol's tone. She's just being matter-of-factly. "Seeing as Rick's no longer here, I'd say you are not interested in him anymore. Your eyes are set on another man."

"You turned into a good detective, sugar?" Michonne asks with sarcasm. Carol smiles at that.

"Girl like me has to have some wit if she's to survive." The dark-skinned woman sighs and passes a hand through her hair. "I know there's something going on between you."

"I wouldn't cross you, Carol."

"A little too late for that."

"No, it's not. He doesn't want me."

"You joking? You better watch it."

"I am not." Carol cocks an eyebrow at her.

"So… you've tried seducing him already." Michonne nods, unsure. "And you think his rejection is a sign of indifference?"

"Is it not?" The woman laughs like it was some really bad joke.

"It took me three months to lure him into an affair. He's so awkward and shy he didn't even realize I was at first. I am surprised that after just one month he lets you hold his hand." Michonne's eyes fall to the floor. "Are you really this clueless?"

"Are you trying to hook me up with him? Or reading my intentions towards him?" Michonne asks, instantly defensive. Carol shrugs.

"A little bit of both, I guess." Silence.

"Dread has it that we are both too good at keeping up with appearances to read each other." Carol gulps at that. Both her and Michonne have managed to survive more or less in the same way. They have thick skin hiding their weaknesses and insecurities from the rest of the world, and they have learned to hurt out of necessity.

"So I suppose there is no remedy other than being honest."

"Which is something that rarely happens between women."

Being honest with their feelings means opening their own armour and showing themselves, risking that the other woman might strike a blow right through their hearts.

"Are you sure you want me to play by this rules?"

"Two femmes in one room are bound to stab each other at some point. Better sooner than later." Carol nods with a smile.

"Alright. Let's be honest then." She moves closer, sitting on the couch next to her. She rests her hand on Michonne's shoulder and smiles when the woman's piercing gaze looks at her questionably. "Let's talk about the past, Michonne. Your past. Your boy and your husband… and all the ghosts that haunt you."

"No."

"I thought we were gonna try and be honest." Carol pauses.

"Not with that."

"It might help you." The woman moves on the couch, uncomfortable, but Carol's hold on her shoulder is strong. She takes a couple deep breaths, clutching the fabric of her skirt. Carol's free hand shoots forward and takes hers, stopping it. She strokes the cut on her palm with her fingers. "What was your boy like?"

She starts telling the story once more and Carol's questions quickly scratch through her walls and peak inside, making their way towards her biggest pains and insecurities. It's like popping open a champagne bottle. Once Carol's soft voice and motherly stroke lures her into breaking down everything she's kept hermetically locked and boiling inside her comes out at once in a devastating explosion of pain and anger. The agony of her past is like a demon fighting to get out of her, burning everything in its path, and it leaves her shaking in sobs with Carol holding her tightly against her.

"He was innocent… my little boy was innocent…"

"I know."

"It was my fault too..."

"Hush now. Take a break." Carol's free hand sneaks inside her purse and hands Michonne a handkerchief. She takes it and wipes her tears away, and a couple minutes pass in complete silence. Once the woman's breathing normalizes Carol turns to look at her, still hiding her face on her shoulder. "Feel better?" Michonne nods and straightens up. It's like a rock has been lifted from her shoulders. Carol hands her the glass of whisky, which she downs in one gulp. "I know I am no one to tell you what to do with your life. But I think whenever someone gets a second chance, they shouldn't waste it." Pause. "You believe in god?"

"I don't know." the woman smiles at that.

"Me neither." Silence. "But I know that if he does exist… he kept me alive for a reason. And I cannot give up or go further down; I have to come back up."

"I don't deserve to come back up."

"You sound like me a few years ago." Michonne meets Carol's harsh eyes. "And I did things back then; things I deeply regret. Things I… should've never done." The woman narrows her eyes at that. What kind of things? Is she talking about Terminus? She's seen as a hero because of that job. Is it something she regrets to have taken one of the mightiest gangs of the last five years down? "You don't understand it, do you? You think what I did was heroic. Everyone does. But I was the one who fed people to dogs; killed them with my own hands; locked them inside a house and burnt them alive. At the time I was just letting go of my anger. But then it came back to me… what I'd done. And I just…" She exhales.

A few moments of silence pass by and Michonne understands where Carol's coming from. Maybe she should listen to this woman; get rid of her own guilt and come back up.

Or maybe she's too far gone already.

"How did you fall in love with him?" She asks out of sheer curiosity. She knows the story told from his perspective, but she's never heard it from hers. Carol bites her lip, knowing she's talking about Daryl.

"He tried to save my daughter." She blurts after a long pause. The words come out fast and punchy. The subject makes her uncomfortable.

"Tried?" Carol nods.

"He failed. But he never gave up on her. He got shot because of a little girl he knew nothing about, a girl who wasn't his. Only a man with a truly good heart would do that." Sounds like Daryl. "You know this already, don't you?"

Michonne nods.

"Daryl told me."

"So..."

"I wanted to see if you were being honest." Carol laughs at that.

"You know; when he found me at the police station, crying over my Sophia, he came to me with a Cherokee rose in his hand. You know the story of the Cherokee rose?"

"The flower that bloomed for the tears of Cherokee mothers?"

"That one. He told me there was a rose out there blooming for my little girl. And it was at that moment that I realized that man was the one I would fall in love with." The silence lingers between both women. Carol plays with her fingers for a few seconds before turning to her with a look of determination. "I guess it's come to this already. I want to know, and I want you to be honest with me." Michonne nods. "Are you in love with him?"

She takes a while to answer. Is she?

Well, she knows she likes him quite a lot. He's handsome and smart and charming and his eyes have this ability to disarm her with one single look. But there's something more besides her obvious attraction towards him.

He gets her even more than Rick or Mike. Every time he looks at her, every time he listens to her stories, she knows he knows her. In the most basic way and without any effort, she knows he is just like her. That it doesn't matter what happens or what she does, he will understand.

"Yes." She finally says. And she's being completely honest; with Carol and with herself. The other woman apparently gets that, because she sighs, resigned.

"Alright then. You can go for it. So long as you don't hurt him. He's been through enough already."

"You seem pretty sure he's going to come to me."

"Because he is." _A woman's gut is never wrong._ "Just remember, I liked him first."

 **-o-**

He enters the smoky room and spots her right away, sitting on the piano, singing; a crowd of admirers at her feet.

Short hair, petite features, lovely figure in a black dress that contrasts beautifully with her fair skin. She's a breath-taking woman. The real Carol hiding behind all the filth and the pain, the Carol Ed must've met. Whoever looks at her would never guess she once was a destroyed woman: A woman who hid her bruises under make-up and crawled into corners to cry her eyes out. Daryl met that woman. And having watched her bloom again, come out of the darkness she was so deeply concealed in, was one of the experiences that saved his life.

He takes the closest table he can get to the piano, orders a scotch and listens to her wonderful version of Fever by Peggy Lee. She receives a storm of applauses by the end and beams to the pianist. Her eyes spot him immediately and as he holds her gaze her smile grows wider.

"Axel, darling, play my song, will'ya?" She asks, putting her hand on the pianist's shoulder. Daryl can tell how flustered that makes him.

 _You're cruel, my Cherokee rose_.

She throws him a smile as the song starts but he can't return it, absorbed as he is in his own memories.

 _All the pretty stars s_ _hine for you my love_

 _Am I the Girl t_ _hat you dream of?_

 _All those little times y_ _ou say that I'm your girl_

 _You make me feel l_ _ike your whole world_

 _I wait for you, babe_

 _It's all I do, babe_

 _You don't come through, babe_

 _You never do_

 _Because I'm pretty when I cry,_

 _I'm pretty when I cry, aaaah,_

 _Pretty when I cry,_

 _I'm pretty when I cry…_

It hurts him more than he thought it would to find her again: his Cherokee rose, his doomed love, his futile dream. He can't remember a time in his life in which he's felt happier and sadder at the same time.

Love is such a bitch.

But he craves for it. He craves for someone he can call his, whether it be Carol or Michonne. He craves for something he never truly had since the days his mother died. The love of a woman.

 _Don't say you need me when_

 _You leave and you leave again._

 _I'm stronger than all my men,_

 _Except for you._

 _Don't say you need me here,_

 _You leave us, you're leaving,_

 _I can't do it, I can't do it,_

 _But you do it well._

 _Dixons are alone in this world, lil' brotha_. Merle's voice scolds him.

After Sophia was found dead she became cold like a statue, with a heart of stone that scared him; enraged him. A better man wouldn't have cared about her inhumanity. A better man would've stayed by her side, tamed her, thrown himself into the fire to rescue her.

A better man, not him.

He left her two years ago to look for his brother, knowing it would never be the same between the both of them. He asked her to write, but she never did. And he wasn't expecting it. He couldn't accept her torment and she couldn't accept his. So he just ran away.

Women don't deserve a coward; women don't deserve a loser who could never find their daughters in time; Women deserve better.

Dixons like his pa, his brother and him are assholes meant to live and die alone, and it's better off this way.

He stays until everyone in the bar leaves, waiting for her. A strong hand on his shoulder tells him he's about to get kicked out.

"My apologies, good sir, we're about to close the bar."

"Darling, let him stay for a while. Will you?" He turns to her, recognizing her voice. She has her hand on the forearm of the broad dark-skinned man who's just asked him to leave. "I got some important matters to settle with this gentleman."

"Mrs. Peletier…"

"A small favor for me?" The man begrudgingly agrees. "I owe ya."

She sits on the chair next to him and takes out a cigarette. He shuffles through his pocket in search for the lighter and she leans over so that he can light a match for her. They look at each other in silence for a few seconds.

"Hello, pookie."

"Carol." She smiles at him sweetly. "Ya were wonderful out there."

"Was I? I'm not what I used to be in my young years."

"Yer young years?"

"I'm gettin' old you see."

"Bullshit. Yer still young an' beautiful."

"Oh, darling…" She laughs and turns towards the pianist, who's just come out the back and seems ready to head out. "Axel! Don't go yet! Can you play us a song?"

The man looks at her and then at him, his eyes wide like plates.

"S-sure, Mrs. Peletier."

He runs back to the piano and sits on it once more. She has him rolling on the tip of her finger, Daryl realizes. Poor man.

"Cry me a river, darling. And sing it too." He starts playing again and Carol turns to Daryl, a wide smile on her lips. "You owe me a dance, remember?"

He smirks sideways and offers her his hand. When she takes it, he leads her to a corner free of tables.

 _Now you say you're lonely_

 _You cry the whole night thru_

 _Well you can cry me a river_

 _Cry me a river_

 _I cried a river over you_

Axel's voice is rough, nothing compared to Carol's, but it'll have to do. They move back and forth to the slow rhythm. Her head is resting against his chest, like old times, and he ducks to kiss her on the forehead, for which she giggles.

"Yer back."

"I never really left. You just assumed I did." Pause "You're the one who's back. Any luck finding your brother?" His silence works as an answer.

"What happened to ya?" He asks.

"Needed to get my shit back on track."

"Lil' Cherokee rose needed time to bloom again, huh?" Her laugh is like the sound of bells. She presses her cheek against his and whispers in his ear.

"I've missed your smart, pretty words."

"They ain' smart."

"They are, trust me. Smart and pretty and charming like you." She faces him, their noses touching, their lips very close to each other. "You could have any woman you wanted with one of those phrases and one look from those eyes." _There's been no one else since you._ Except for _her._ But she is no longer an option. "What about that pretty honey you were so protective of last night?" Carol asks, reading his thoughts as usual.

"Ya apologize to her?" She rolls her eyes at that.

"Yes, baby. I did. I was just... shocked... cause of Andrea."

"Ya said she was one a yer girls? Yer not still on the inside, are ya?"

"Not 'nymore. But heaven knows there's no one out there with so many contacts who is as loyal to Rick as I am." So she's not done being an informant. He guesses some kind of lust for revenge must still burn inside her heart. "So… Michonne Johnson… you always got a thing for black widows, don'cha?" Yes, deadly black widows; women who wrap a man in their net and devour him slowly. He can't get enough of their venom. "Isn't she Rick's sweetheart?"

"Not 'nymore."

"Is she yours?"

"Ya jealous?"

"Of course I'm jealous. I liked you first." He snorts at that and she moves forward. For a second he thinks of giving in, but an impulse makes him turn his head and her lips land on his cheek. She looks surprised by it, but not heartbroken. "Life loves to play us hard, ain't that true?" She asks sadly. "Things between us could've worked out nicely. But I just had to lose her..."

"Hush." He interrupts her. It's not her fault. None of this is her fault. He wishes he could take that awful feeling out of her chest and crush it on the ground. Gods know she's suffered enough. Carol's lips quiver and he pecks them lightly, trying to comfort her. There is no passion left in his kiss and she notices. "Are ya happy now?"

"I'm getting there." She assures him. He can't tell if she's being truthful. At least she's safe and doing what she loves. Some happiness must derive from that. Right? "Are you?" He grimaces. "You got a second chance, babe. You are a good man, you deserve to be happy. You do." She repeats.

"Not wanting to interrupt, Mrs Peletier, but I really need to close the bar now."

She moves away and nods to the man.

"Alright, T-Dog darling. You're always in such a hurry." She says mockingly giving the man a kiss on the cheek. Daryl grabs her coat and helps her put it on before going for his own. "Won't you give me a ride home?"

The pianist, who's just put his fedora on his head, approaches.

"I-I c-can do that for ya if ya want'ta darlin'..." Daryl throws him a look that makes him back down.

"I'll do it."

"S-sure." The man nods, heartbreak beaming in his eyes.

Daryl offers the dame his arm to take and she does. As they exit through the door he catches a reflexion on the glass of T-Dog putting a comforting hand on Axel's shoulder.

"Ya might wanna stop makin' men fall in love with ya all da time." He whispers to Carol. She giggles.

He parks on the front door of her house and she leans on him, gently pecking his neck. She's bolder than he remembers. Must be the jazz singer coming to life again.

"You sure don't want to come up?"

"I..." He sighs. "I'm sure."

"Another woman?"

"Maybe."

"She _is_ your sweetheart. Isn't she?" He knows she's referring to Michonne.

"Smartass." She giggles.

"As little as possible, huh? Never seems to work for you."

"Not makin' that mistake again."

"Don't be silly. She's a good catch. Don't let her go." He turns to her and she strokes his hair. A soft kiss goodbye and then she's opening the door and stepping out of the car. "Goodbye, pookie."

"Carol?"

"Yes?" She leans against the open window.

"I don't regret lookin' fer yer girl."

"I don't regret loving you. Be happy."

 _Farewell, my Cherokee rose._

* * *

 _These Days - Ane Brun_

 _for Michonne's conversation with Carol._

 _Songs featured in the chapter:_

 _Fever - Peggy Lee_

 _Pretty when I cry - Lana del Rey (The original doesn't have piano, but it would be quite nice if it did)_

 _Cry me a River - Ella Fitzgerald_

 _I don't own Walking Dead or the lyrics to any of the songs featured in here._

 _I know, I know. The infamous singer in the Walking Dead is not Carol, it's Beth. But just imagine Carol sitting on top of one of those old pianos surrounded by cigarette smoke and the sound of ringing glasses. Oh my, the Beauty and Glamour of that Scene._

 _I got almost every character from film-Noir covered, I think: The hardboiled detective (Daryl), the femme fatale (Michonne, although much more human and good), the shady Police officer (Rick), the dangerous gangster (Philip), the bad luck Girl (Andrea), the sneaky Club owner (Carol)... there are more to come. I think the only one I didn't get anywhere was the wealthy businessman, but meh._

 _And I know this last two chapters have been a Little misleading when it Comes to couples. But I needed Daryl and Michonne to get some closure with their former lovers before they could jump into something. As I hope you realize, their love-stories with Rick and Carol have a very big influence in who they've become and how they react to each other._


	19. XIX - Moth to a Flame

_Enjoy this chapter, cause the story is about to get heavy again. Love ya!_

* * *

 **XIX. Moth to a Flame**

It's his last night in that damn room across the street from her apartment and he's determined to see her once more before they part ways forever. He's thrown all his decency and caution out the window and he's conscious of the fact that this may be a stupid idea. But he doesn't care.

Call it fate, coincidence, Rick's romantic frustration; there must be a reason why he crossed paths with her. The chances with a woman like this don't fall from the sky, and even if it means getting in hot water, they must be worth it.

Of course his chances might already be gone. Who knows if she still wants him? In which case, it is just a friendly gesture.

 _A bottle of Jack Daniel's for good riddance. A toast to our worthless lives._

He's willing to risk it.

He enters the office to grab his trench coat and fedora from the coat stand. He doesn't generally use them, but tonight it is pouring outside.

He must hurry if he wants to get to the liquor store in time.

"Where you going?" Rick's voice behind him freezes every muscle of his body. In his hurry he forgot he shares an office with the man.

"I still got some packin' a do." He responds curtly. A really bad lie and his boss can see right through it. He can feel Rick's eyes on his back, but doesn't pay them any mind.

The air between them has been tense since that faithful day and Daryl isn't sure if things will ever be the same. Considering Rick he's quite lucky to have kept his job.

"You're going to see her." It is not a question, it is a statement. Daryl turns to his boss, his blank expression not hiding or telling anything. Rick takes out a cigarette and lights it, inhaling the smoke with a scowl.

He is not a smoker, so it means trouble when he starts doing it out of frustration. Daryl sighs and deposits his trench-coat on the chair, before sitting in front of him.

"Rick…" He analyses carefully what he is going to tell him. Rick is his friend, a good friend. He saved his life during the war and Daryl has saved his during missions. They've shared cigarettes and bottles of booze together. They've shared war wounds, clothes, stories of the past, even beds. He doesn't want to lose him over a woman.

He's not ready to lose another brother.

"You were right that night, you did what I told you to. You disobeyed me in minor details, but let's be real here, you always do and you always manage to make it work regardless. You are one of my best agents and one of my greatest friends and I should have never treated you like that…" Rick takes a deep breath. "Over a woman who's… clearly not mine anymore. A woman I abandoned in the first place."

Daryl gulps.

"Ya stayed with her that night." Rick throws him the look.

"No." Silence.

"Then what? She don' want'ya no more?"

"I think she wants you." His tone is not aggressive at all. Not anymore. He just seems to have accepted it. "I know you want her. So go ahead. Put your hand inside the fire. I am just gonna go get drunk… get over her, like I planned from the beginning… and watch you make the same mistake I made." Daryl snorts. "What was that, Dixon?"

Daryl just shakes his head.

"Nothin', I…" he gulps, his eyes meeting his friend's. "I think I know better than you what I'm gettin' into." His boss gives him a smile of camaraderie, shaking his hand as Daryl gets up.

"With this woman? Trust me, you don't."

 **-o-**

She's happy to have him there. Or so he thinks. She's smiling brightly; her eyes still hold that never ending sadness, but her demeanor is cheerful, as if she was really trying to enjoy herself.

The jack must be helping her too. She's had quite a lot, but he can tell she's not drunk yet: strong drinker and strong smoker, this one.

He likes that.

He always knew he would be prey to women of vice; Women who know how to handle themselves in this asphalt jungle. All-American girls and their compliant disposition naturally tend to evade him and he tends to evade them. But cloudy, enigmatic ladies like Carol and Michonne, dames whose eyes say it all and don't say anything at the same time; those dames seem to latch onto him.

"Are you thinking of her?" She asks him, leaning seductively against the kitchen counter.

"Of whom?" He asks, genuinely curious. He can't think of anyone but her, and she should already know that.

"Your jazz-singer?" He gives her a side smile.

"Depends. Are ya thinkin' a yer sheriff watchin' ya through the window?" She laughs at his boldness.

"I'm thinking of someone who watches me through the window. But it is not who you think it is."

"That right?"

"Hmm."

"I think ya got a little too much to drink."

"A little. It's definitely made me bolder."

"It might make ya clumsy and dopey soon enough."

"Nuh-uh. It'll take much more than just a Jack to have me go clumsy and dopey and leaning against you."

"Aren't ya already doin' that?" He asks, signaling with his head at the quickly receding distance between them. Her smile is mysterious as she leans against his arm, their faces very close to each other.

"You're gonna run for the hills again?" She asks, challenging him. He smiles at that. She's really good at this game. A game he seldom plays and he has very little knowledge of. But playing it this time is easier and the Jack has definitely managed to make him fearless. So he figures he might as well just go for it.

"What's that?" He asks harmlessly, focusing on a little dark dot on her lower neck.

"What?"

"On yer neck." His hand shoots forward, caressing her skin, making her jump. She looks at him questionably, but he doesn't back down.

He can't.

His fingers stroke the small spot and she looks down at them. She's nervous. One touch and he's already managed to take her out of her element.

"Oh… that… it's just… a birthmark." He scoops closer to her.

"A birthmark?"

"Yeah. My father had it too…" She stops talking when he leans towards her, just an inch away from her lips. His eyes are still open, looking at her, waiting for any sign of withdrawal from her part. She doesn't give it and he goes ahead, closing his lids and pressing his lips to hers.

The kiss is so soft he starts doubting it is happening in reality.

 _If this is a dream, she'll shoot me at any second._

He pulls away looking into her eyes and she kisses him again. And again and again, each time more passionately. She clings to his body fiercely as he pushes her against the kitchen counter and starts running his hands through her body.

 **-o-**

They stumble inside the bedroom and she turns around, guiding his hands towards the zipper of her dress. He pulls it down slowly, lower and lower, and watches the fabric slide down her body, like he's done countless times.

Only this time there's no window or street outside or blinds separating them. This time his hands are the ones undressing her. This time it is not a dream.

He kisses her nape and runs his hands through her body; his fingers sneak between her legs and rub against her clitoris through her panties. She gasps again, her hand clutching strands of his hair, her head pressed against his shoulder. He can feel her wetness through the fabric, her heat.

His other hand sneaks underneath her bra and pinches her nipple, eliciting a moan. She rocks her perfect ass against his erection, making him pant, and he bites the skin of her shoulder before turning her around and squeezing her buttocks with his hands, pressing himself against her stomach. Her hands open his shirt and thug it down his shoulders and he takes her in his strong arms, pulling her from the ground, making her legs wrap around his waist.

He enjoys the sensation of her lithe body against his, her warmth, as he carries her to the bed and lays her gently against the mattress. Her hands unclasp his belt and start unbuttoning his pants, but he stops them. He wants to have her naked first. Relive his fantasies as much as possible. Pressing her unwilling hands against the bed, he starts planting kisses down her body, listening intently to the sounds she makes.

Her bra opens from the front. Thank god for that, he thinks as he snaps the clasps, freeing her perfect breasts. He takes one of her dark nipples in his mouth and she moans, her wrists twitching underneath his palms and her hips buckling against his. He frees one of her hands and strokes her other breast, his fingers pinching her nipple hard as his mouth suckles and bites the other. When he feels she's nearing the end, he leaves her breasts and she moans in complaint.

"Don't tease me like that…" she begs him, trying to push his head back up with her now free hands. He chuckles against her skin. Way better things await her. He runs his hands down her legs slowly, admiring their sculptural build. Her legs were one of the first things he noticed about her. He feels like he could live between them, watching and touching them for the rest of his life. His fingers snap the garters on her left thigh and slowly start rolling her stocking down, his mouth tortuously following the trail of skin the nylon leaves free. She props herself on her elbows to watch him as he repeats the process with her other leg. Her lip is caught between her teeth, her eyes clouded with wanton. She helps him get rid of her garter belt and he kisses her lower belly, trailing his tongue over her navel, tickling her.

His hands pull her panties down and turn her legs open, trailing soft kisses on the inside of her thigh until he reaches her core and starts feasting on her lower lips. Her hips start moving involuntarily and he can feel the heat and taste her increasing wetness. He sneaks one of his fingers inside her entrance and starts moving and pushing in and out of her. He adds a second finger and feels her clench around him with need as he repeats the thrusts, his tongue never ceasing its attack on her clitoris. She moans so loudly he's sure the entire building is listening. It doesn't stop him from tasting her more avidly, his fingers moving faster, as she gets wetter and wetter and finally explodes, stifling her loud scream against her arm.

He kisses her belly as he comes back up and she takes his hand and licks his fingers with that wild look in her eyes that drives him mad. He plunges his tongue inside her mouth, and she tastes herself in his lips, eagerly.

"Now ya can go ahead." He tells her.

She smiles against his lips and rolls them around, her hands finally managing to open his pants and pull them down. She tucks his undershirt over his head and stares down at his chest full of scars. He gulps as her hand touches it, automatically grabbing her wrist. She tilts her head to the side and leans down, planting a reassuring kiss on his lips. He takes a deep breath; slowly letting go of her hand and feeling it trace each of his scars lovingly. Her lips follow the path of her fingers as she buys her time with each of them, going lower and lower. Her hand is now touching his cock in the slowest, most tortuous way, and he throws his head back, panting in pleasure. She teasingly plays with his balls before sneaking further downwards and kissing the tip of his glans. As she takes him inside her mouth the world turns into a blur. She draws back and looks at him before repeating the motion, sucking hard. He moans helplessly, clenching his abdomen tightly to stop himself from coming right then and pulls from her hair a little too hard, forcing her away from him. He sees her slight wince at that and immediately strokes her head in apology.

"I'm sorry… just don'… don' finish me like that."

She nods and comes back up to kiss him, settling herself on top of him and holding his manhood in her hand as she lowers herself around him.

They both breathe heavily at the sensation of his cock inside her tight walls. She squeezes him playfully and he thrusts his hips upwards, eliciting a grave moan from her. She feels so wonderful; tight and warm and better than he's ever dreamt. His hands dig into the skin of her hips as she starts moving up and down, in and out, on top of him. He mirrors her moves in time, his hips meeting hers with each thrust. Her head is thrown back in pleasure, giving him the most wonderful sight of her contorted body as her breasts bounce up and down. He quickens their pace, feral desire boiling in his blood, and her moans of pleasure fill the atmosphere.

His hands grab her hips and turn her against the bed as he draws back, completely out and opens her legs with both hands, instinct taking over him. He thrusts into her harder this time, filling her to the hilt, and the action drives her close to the end, her walls closing around him and her nails digging in his back. He repeats the motion, paying attention to her reaction.

"Right there?" He asks.

"Right there." He thrusts inside her again and again, harder, faster, hitting her spot.

She begs him not to stop and there's so much sweetness in her plea... Her whole body jolts in a powerful orgasm and her lips scream his name. He releases the muscles of his belly, finally letting go as she tightens around him, helping him reach his climax. He moans loudly against her neck as he comes and his body collapses from the exertion on top of hers.

Long minutes pass as they lie there, their bodies tangled in each other. It may be the first time he's felt so complete; so in the right place at the right time. This is where he wants to be for the rest of his life. In the arms of this woman, the horrible world around them fading until there's no trace of it; until there's only him and her and their love for each other.

"I don' ever wanna let go a ya." He murmurs against her cheek and she turns to look at him, lips trembling and eyes wide. Vulnerable.

He's never seen her like this.

"Don't say you're in love with me." She begs in an unsteady voice. "I might end up believing it."

"Ya should. Cause it's true." Her hands caress his back and he flinches. _Her scratches._ An apologetic smile grazes her lips.

"If you only knew how you make me feel…" she gulps, her fingers brushing the strands of hair away from his forehead. "Are you going to break my heart, Dixon?"

"What makes ya say that?"

"A feeling. Perhaps the fact that I know you're not really in love with me."

"Ya always tend to think the worst of men, huh? Ya cynical lil' flower?"

"Are you any different?"

"No, babe, I'm exactly like ya. Seems we're meant to be together." She doesn't respond instantly to that. Her eyes are fixed on his, trying to evaluate any sign of lies.

Where did all this insecurity come from?

"I know what you see when you look at me. You see that woman on the window. You see her mystery and her enticement and her beauty. But that woman is just one very small part of me. The real me is violent and broken and uglier than you can imagine, love. Uglier than you can handle."

He takes a minute to analyze that. He's heard it before and at some point he might have heeded that warning and gotten out of this. Right now, however, it is too late. He isn't scared of her anymore. He wants her. All of her. He wants the mysterious lady seizing him up with her dark eyes and the relentless killer strangling men with phone cables. He wants the charming dame who has a passion for chocolate and the broken woman mourning the loss of her friend. He lets out a soft laugh and she looks at him through narrowed eyes.

"Rick told me exactly the same thing about ya once."

"Did he now?"

"And yet here I am, love."

"One might call you a fool."

"Perhaps." He strokes her side, turning their positions so that he's lying on the mattress and she's lying against his chest. "Perhaps I'm aware a the danger and I want'ya regardless." She kisses him. "All yer pain an' yer anger... all a ya."

"You want another broken soul... one who gets you." Yeah. He does. He wants her to be there for him when his own nightmares about his brother make him scream at night, he wants her to kiss his scars without a single hint of fear or pity, he wants her to listen to him and not judge him. He wants her to love him for who he is, no questions asked, no regrets between them. She's his equal; his soulmate. She's the only woman who truly gets him. And that is exactly where the danger resides. "We might destroy each other."

"We might."

"You're not scared?"

"You?" She considers it for a while before answering.

"No." He nods as she nudges her head against his neck.

"Good."

* * *

 _Together - The XX_


	20. XX - One Step at a Time

_A/N: Hello again, people! It's been more than a week, wow. Mea culpa for having totally fangirled around Morgan and Carol instead of concentrating in my real couple here - Priorities, woman, you got them in the wrong place - I gotta be completely honest with you. I won't finish this before my finals, and I cannot write 17 summaries of Cantar del mio Cid and this story at the same time. Well I could, but then every chapter would a total brainfart if I did. Let's see how far I can take it until the end of december, and then I will take a two month pause and be back in March. Deal?_

 _Love you all, my dear readers! Enjoy!_

* * *

 **XX. One Step at a Time**

"Somethin' happened?" Sasha's voice through the phone sounds worried.

"No. Must there be something wrong for me to want to go back home?"

"No, that's not what I meant. It's just that you haven't come back in a long time and it's kinda weird that you want to do it now." Michonne rolls her eyes at that.

There's absolutely nothing she can do nowadays that doesn't sound suspicious to her friends.

 _Guess my sneaky days are over._

"I just need some time away from here to... sort things out."

"Ok." She still doesn't sound convinced.

"Look, if you need the apartment you don't have to..."

"I told you, sister. It's not that." Sasha sighs at the other end of the line. "I'll have my things moved tomorrow. That alright?"

"It's perfect, sister. Thank you."

"Tyreese will be happy to see you. And make sure you tell Morgan about it."

"Why? You think he'll be against it?"

"No. But things 'round here be getting rough and you might wanna avoid misunderstandings."

"I'll keep that in mind. Tell Ty, Mila and little Roger I said hi."

"Will do."

"Bye, sister."

"Bye, Chonne."

Michonne hangs the phone and rubs her temples with her fingers. Her lovely 'sister' is as smart as her and twice as feisty. If she came to find out the real reason behind her visit she would knock her to the ground. Or at least try. One must pray that she doesn't decide to follow her.

Although, why would she even do that? Not like she has the free time to. Michonne's being paranoid again.

A side effect of spending so much time near every detective in this darn city.

She closes her briefcase and leaves it on the desk with a little note for Maggie. The now useless documents they both kept to win their case against the Governor are in it and they may prove useful one day.

Before closing the door, Michonne looks back at her office. Some strange feeling in the pit of her stomach tells her this may be the last time she steps inside the place. Goosebumps travel down her spine at the thought of it.

As she walks down the stairs she runs into a couple gingerly entering the building in the middle of laughter. Maggie and her new beau. The brunette turns to her with a smile bigger than Texas and widens when she recognizes her.

"Michonne!" The woman answers with a cheeky smile. Maggie's face turns so red cars would stop at the sight of it. Glenn, the young policeman whose arm she's wrapped around, is less ashamed of finding her.

"Eh! You're Daryl's girl!" He says shamelessly and both women turn to look at him with a frown. "I-I mean… how you doing ma'am?"

"Good. How are you _two_ doing?"

"He's just dropping me off. We went out for lunch and since you were busy…" Michonne nods.

"It's a good thing I found you, then. Would've hated to leave without saying goodbye." The couple tilt their heads at the same time, the exact same confused expression in their faces; Michonne smiles at the cuteness of that.

Yeah, they're made for each other. Let's hope Maggie wants to go steady.

"Are you leaving?"

"I told you I would. It'll only be for a little while, though."

"Dixon'll be heartbroken." The policeman comments. Maggie's entire body seems to freeze at the mention of 'Dixon'. She lets go of Glenn's arm and stares at him with cold eyes. A moment of awkward silence and then she takes Michonne's arm, walking away from him. "Would you excuse us one moment?" Once in a corner away from Glenn's earshot, she turns to the dark-skinned woman. "Michonne, please. Let this go."

The woman frowns at that.

"What are you talking about?"

"The Governor. You want to chase him, I get it. He did real damage to you, but…"

"Who said anything about Philip?" Michonne shoots back, indignant.

"You're not going after him?"

"No! I want some time with my people, away from this dang city. A time to get my shit together, like everyone else wants me to. This has nothing to do with a stupid revenge, and by god! If anyone could just stop treating me like I'm a ticking time bomb all the time! That'd be great!"

"Ok! Ok! I'm sorry!" Maggie apologizes and Michonne ends up sighing and rubbing the bridge of her nose.

"Forgive me, I'm a bit explosive lately." A short silence before she gives Maggie an apologetic smile and points at Glenn with her head. "So… you and him been going out for a while, haven't you?"

Maggie blushes again and a kittenish smile starts playing in her lips.

"You know me, Chonne. I'm not the type of girl guys buy a ring for." Her friend raises an eyebrow at that.

"I don't know if you ever gave any guy the chance to buy you a ring. But... you seem quite taken with him." Glenn seems to divine they are speaking about him, because he meets their gaze when they both turn. "He might be a keeper. You know?"

"Stop it." The woman laughs. "Daryl Dixon? That's your beau's name?"

"You always seem so shaken every time you hear it." Maggie opens her mouth, then closes it. Michonne knows she's omitting something. Does she know Daryl? Or someone related to him? Why did she look so horrified when Glenn mentioned his last name?

Does this have to do with her sister in some way? The woman gulps. Maggie told her Beth was married to some redneck. One Maggie herself despised.

But Daryl isn't married, is he? His only girlfriend was Carol. And he cannot have abandoned some very young woman in Virginia all those years ago. Right?

She thinks of all those men out there who have more than one family and one life and are able to fool everyone. Could Daryl be one of them?

Maggie naturally senses her discomfort. She puts her hand on her shoulder, reassuring her.

"Don't worry, I might as well just be a little paranoid. One out of three men in the South are named Dixon, must've heard it so many times I got stuck with it." Michonne nods, not convinced of it herself. Maggie isn't as good with lies as her. "In any case; I wish you good luck in your trip. Seriously, though, come back."

"Will do."

As they say goodbye to each other and Maggie runs back to Glenn, Michonne heads out of the building; in her mind a hurricane of doubts and uncertainties.

 **-o-**

His apartment is a small and messy dumpster that reminds him a little too much of that half-built shack he and his family used to live in. A two-room place in the middle of the city with a very small kitchen and a half-painted bedroom. He's not that organized either, though he does his best to try. But the apartment's size and its lack of light due to its lack of windows makes it look five times messier than it already is. For years this hasn't affected him in the slightest. But now that she spends some of her nights in it he really feels ashamed of having to show it to her.

As usual, though, she seems not to mind the lack of luxury and order. She welcomes it as much as she welcomes him. And it warms his heart in an almost painful way.

This is what he's always wanted. The calm expression of acceptance in her eyes is something he's craved for since the dawn of his life.

Carol used to give him that same look too. But with her it was a lot harder to relax. Maybe cause neither of them truly accepted each other's brokenness. They were constantly fighting silently to correct the other instead of letting things take their natural course. It was a mistake Daryl only now realizes.

The bed creeks uncontrollably as they both move against each other. The walls are paper thin and they have to bite back their moans of pleasure. The small surface of the mattress doesn't allow them to move that much either.

But hell, all those things hardly matter when he has her like this, her dark sweaty skin against his and her teeth biting his neck wildly, leaving marks that'll stay there for weeks; Her legs around his neck as he tastes her insatiable and his fingers digging into her hair as she does the same for him.

Kneeling on the floor, she takes him inside her mouth, stealing quick glances at his expression and smiling smugly at the noises she elicits from him. Her tongue strokes his glans and her lips move back and forth, taking him in and out, each time faster and harder until he comes and she swallows his seed, coughing sweetly.

He takes her by the arms and lays her against the bed, kissing her entire body. How he loves the things she does to him; she has no idea. When he's up again, he lifts her legs and sets them on his shoulders before he enters her. She tightens around him in a claustrophobic manner and as he leans over to kiss her, her fingers clutch strands of his hair aggressively.

Something's wrong. He stops and looks at her inquisitively, but she just moves forward and bites his lower lip in need.

"Don't stop, babe." He strokes her face sweetly and disentangles her legs from his shoulders. "What?"

"I want'ya closer." She pouts. She likes that position, but complies nonetheless when he sits her on his lap, cradling her on top of him. Her arms fly around his neck as she pulls him closer, guiding him inside her again. She starts grinding against him, looking for release; and he holds onto her like holding onto a raft in open sea. It is slower than they are used to, but the feeling is magnificent. She comes once, twice, and the third time he comes with her, whispering her name against her lips.

They lie on the bed again after the fourth round of sex, exhausted and squished against each other to avoid falling from it.

"I love you." She whispers. "I love you, I love you…"

"Me too." She sighs against his neck and throws one leg across his. As she catches her breath, he strokes her hair and back. "Yer very loud, love." Her smile grows wider.

"I know."

"Not that I don' like it. But I got a pair a catholic folks livin' downstairs." She laughs at that.

"Ain't that a bite?" After long minutes of silence, he props himself on his elbows, looking at her.

"What's wrong?"

"Hmm?"

"Why yer so aggressive tonight?" Her eyes harden and he can no longer read them. He hates it when she does that.

"You have a wife?" The question throws him off the loop. He smiles, expecting it to be a joke.

"Do ya see one here? She should prob'bly do a better job with the cleanin'." She doesn't laugh at that; her expression is dead serious. These moments of insecurity after such intense love-making are one of the things he's realized he has to get used to with this woman. Rick was right when he warned him about not knowing what he was getting himself into. Michonne is hard to be with. Not that he's peachy either. She definitely puts up with a lot of shit from him too. Guess this is what relationships are like. Or, are they even in a relationship? He doesn't really know. He feels they are. He wants it. He isn't sure she does. "No." He answers, dead serious. "Why ya ask?"

"You know Margaret Greene?" He frowns at that.

"Ain' she Glenn's sweetheart?" Michonne nods.

"She has a sister. Bethany Greene. Beth. A pretty, blond, all-american girl with green eyes and that wonderful singing voice you like in women." her eyes are fixed in his, looking for his reaction to that name. But Daryl just looks back at her, clueless. "Ring a bell?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." The woman's eyes turn softer and her lower lip quivers.

"Alright." She whispers.

"So, what's wrong?" She presses her lips against his and he can feel her relaxing in his arms.

"Nothing. I just have a natural distrust for people. Forgive me." Everything seems alright again and he has no clue of why or what exactly happened. He pulls her closer and starts kissing up and down her neck, tasting her salty sweat. She smells intoxicatingly good, even more so after sex. "I told you I would be leaving for a while."

He draws back and lays his head against the pillow, his gaze fixed on the sealing.

"Yeah." His tone is edgy.

"Would you prefer I stayed?"

 _Yes_. He gulps and then shrugs.

"Ya can do whatever ya want. I ain' gon' tell ya." She sighs at that.

"Can we at least have one discussion in which you don't get mad at me?" He turns to look at her.

"I ain' mad at ya."

 _I just don't understand you._

"I'm leaving in a week." Silence.

"Back ta yer town?" She nods. He wishes he could tell her not to do it. But he isn't going to. He doesn't know why.

Feelings and words don't seem to go well together for him. They did the first time, maybe cause of alcohol or the euphoria that comes after having made love to a true wonderful woman; that same euphoria that makes men lose their fear of death and pain. Once the first moment of glory is gone, though, insecurities come back.

Having her here, by his side, giving herself to him, scares him shitless. What happens if she leaves? What happens if he's not good enough for her? Can he demand anything when he already has more than he deserves?

She falls asleep in his arms immediately, but it takes a while for him to do the same.

* * *

 _Crazy in Love (Beyonce Cover) - Sofia Karlberg_


	21. XXI - Home is where you go

**XXI. Home is where you Go**

 _…when you run out of places._

Sasha and Tyreese are not really her siblings and she'll never have such a strong bond with them as they have with each other. Still, them and Morgan are the last thing resembling a family she's got left. When she lost Mike and Andre it was them who left everything behind, even risking losing their jobs, to go to the city and comfort her.

It still makes her feel like shit that she wasn't able to do the same for them when they needed her the most. Karen's disease was something Tyrese wanted to deal with completely alone. But after Bob Sasha could've used Michonne's support. And the woman had wanted to give it to her, but Morgan had forbidden it. It had been a dangerous time and getting inside the community would have meant possible death for both of them.

Her making this trip may also mean the same, but she's gotta make sure that the last piece of family she has left are safe and sound and away from any threat that might derive as a consequence to being acquainted with her.

 _Be careful on the way, woman. Philip is the kind of man who doesn't leave any lose ends. He may still want to take revenge and he knows people's weaknesses._

She smiles as she exits the bus and the first thing she spots is their smiling faces. She grabs her small suitcase and makes her way through the crowd. An elbow suddenly pushes in between her ribs, making her wince, and she turns to find a white man staring straight into her eyes with an expression of deep disgust in his face.

"Watch where yer goin' nigger." Blank rage shakes her entire body at the slur.

"Excuse me?" The man doesn't give her a second look as he makes his way past the crowd, leaving her shaking with anger. She takes a step towards him, but resolves it's not worth her time. Her eyes graze over the pair of sheriffs standing not so far away who clearly witnessed the situation and are eyeing her as if she was the one who misbehaved.

Of course.

Sasha's hand on her shoulder makes her forget her contempt in a matter of seconds and she turns to hug her tightly.

"Welcome back, sister." The woman says, her voice trembling. There are tears in her eyes as they disentangle.

"Home sweet home. Aight?" Tyreese comments as they approach him. "You barely stepped in here and they already showin' you their southern hospitality."

"Tyreese, not now." Sasha chastises him. Michonne smiles at the broad man and comes up to hug him. His arms sweep around her and pull her from the ground and she laughs.

"You thinner than before." He comments as he sets her down. "Kept on exercisin'? Eating's very important, 'Chonne, stop skippin' meals all the dang time."

"Home sweet home. You barely stepped in here and Tyreese be already actin' like he's your dad." Michonne laughs at the way both siblings look at each other, like they were about to start pulling from each other's hair again.

"I missed you guys so much…"

Tyrese's gaze travels carefully towards the policemen behind Michonne and suddenly the awareness of their surroundings becomes a little too dangerous.

"Let's go." The dark-skinned man presses in a low tone. "Those assholes be looking at us funny."

Once they're on the highway Michonne takes a few minutes to analyze her companions. At first sight it seems they haven't changed one bit, but she knows them better than that. They're more serious and quiet than she remembers, and carry with them that certain atmosphere of heaviness, rage and something missing. Tyreese catches her eyes through the rear-view mirror and she looks away, immediately.

"So, how your trip go?" He asks, breaking the silence.

"The usual. Hateful." Sasha snickers sourly and turns around.

"If you did visit us more often you'd get more used to it."

"How 'bout you two visiting' me? Or comin' with me for that matter?" Both siblings look at each other.

"Come where? North?" Sasha asks, sarcastically. "Stop giving us that tale that everything's better there."

"It's not a tale, it's true." The woman throws her an unbelieving look. "It's not perfect, but…"

"It ain't perfect…" Sasha laughs at that and shakes her head. "That a weak excuse for a lot of shit we come to accept just because."

Michonne purses her lips at that and Tyrese seems to notice threat of a fight in the air.

"Our lives are here, 'Chonne. And they ain't perfect either." He comments. "No point in tryna change 'em now."

Michonne sighs at that and turns to Sasha, who's still eyeing her up and down from her place in the front seat.

"Why didn't Roger and Mila come with you?" The woman's expression darkens.

"We don't bring them to town if we can avoid it. It's the place where they got Bob." Michonne nods gravely and stays silent.

"I made ham hocks an' beans." Tyreese ventures, changing the subject. "Grandma's recipe."

"Sasha help you?" The woman asks, tentative, throwing a sideways glance at her 'sister'. Tyreese guffaws at that.

Sasha is good at a lot of things; cooking is not one of them. The woman glares daggers at them and crosses her arms.

"Big tickle, you two."

 **-o-**

Her small town is the same as she last saw it. In some ways better, in some ways worse, but never quite as good as it should be. Its roads are still mostly dirt and its houses are quite worn out by the weather and the lack of maintenance. There's a group of children playing football on the street, blocking the road. Tyreese pulls his head out the window and whistles hard, and the boys run out of the way. The car makes its way to a small house on the right side of the street. There's a 14 year old girl sitting on the porch, talking to a pair of boys as her hands work a knife on what Michonne guesses is a piece of wood.

She jumps to her feet as she sees them and waves in Michonne's direction.

"Auntie 'Chonne!" She screams as the woman opens the door and steps out of the car, and throws herself at her.

"Mila!" She looks the girl up and down with a bright smile. "You. Are. Huge."

"Been two years since you last seen her. Of course she huge." Tyreese comments, stepping out of the car and glaring at the two boys who still stand on his porch. "What up with you, gentlemen?"

One of the boys steps up with a small packet in his hands.

"You Michonne Johnson, right?" He asks her. She nods. The boy hands her the packet. "My dad wanna welcome you back."

Dad... She widens at him.

"Duane?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Oh, my god. You're also huge…" The boy narrows his eyes, clearly trying to remember if he's ever seen her before. "You probably don't remember me. I met you when you were three." Andre looked a lot like him, she thinks sourly. _Maybe I'm seeing how my son would've looked like at twelve._

"Come in, Roger be waitin'." Mila pulls from her sleeve like she used to do when she was five. She's still a little girl, Michonne realizes.

Tyreese looks back at both boys; this time clearly angry.

"Somethin' else?" The guys shake their heads at the same time.

"See you, Mila. Goodnight mister. Ma'am." Duane nods as he walks away, dragging his friend behind him. The girl's flirty smile disappears when her father looks at her in disapproval.

"What?" She asks, innocently, before heading inside the house.

 **-o-**

"Hello, lil Roger. How you doin'?" The six year old is sitting on a corner of the room, playing with an old fire truck made of wood. He's got dark, curly hair like his mama's, and a pair of very big, round and dark eyes. It takes a while for him to notice her, but when he does he smiles, seemingly recognizing her, which is strange: it was two years ago when he saw her the last time.

He extends her the toy he's playing with, but Sasha takes it before Michonne can.

"Not now, Peanut. Aunt Chonne's really tired." It takes a second for her to realize what she's just said, but when she does she turns to Michonne with mortification in her eyes.

Peanut. She noticed.

A few months ago that simple word would have made her cry. But Sasha hasn't seen her in a year and Michonne has managed to control it since then.

"Don't worry."

"So sorry…"

"It's ok, sister." She tries to take the toy from Sasha's hand, giving her a reassuring smile. "I'm not too tired. I can play with him." She can feel everyone's stares set on her. Tyreese's, Mila's, Sasha's… even Roger's. Though, he's probably more concerned about his mom giving him back his toy than about her.

"As you wish." Sasha's hold on the toy loosens and as Michonne crouches to sit on the floor she hears the woman take a few steps back, still feeling her doubtful eyes on her back.

She reciprocates his bright smile with one of her own. Tears burn on the back of her eyes, but she's not afraid of the memories anymore. She extends him the fire truck and the boy takes it, putting it on the floor and making it roll in her direction.

They play like this for an hour. The boy never says a word; he just looks up and smiles. And Michonne could swear he senses her turmoil.

At some point he comes up to her and hugs her tightly, sitting on her legs. It takes all her strength not to burst in tears right then, but she manages to hold them back and take him in her arms, squishing him lovingly.

She strokes his curly hair in her hand and feels his breathing, the beat of his tiny heart and the slight pressure of his arms around her neck. Andre's memory burns inside her, and she welcomes the pain and the melancholy, like Carol told her to do. It's a part of healing; it's a part of getting past this.

This is why she's here. Because maybe, just maybe, she deserves a second chance. And she needs to find out.

Sasha's hand is on her shoulder and she disentangles herself from the boy, turning to her.

"Dinner ready." She whispers. "Dinner Roger?"

The boy looks at his mom, then back at Michonne, and throws his arms around her once more. Both women smile at that.

"He's very affectionate." Michonne comments as she gets up and carries him to the table, Sasha by her side.

"He cannot talk, so he expresses himself in other ways. But he always got a soft spot for you in particular."

As they all sit, Tyreese looks over at her.

"You getting over it, huh?" He asks and a jump from the table tells her both his sister and daughter have kicked him.

"In a way." She answers with a smile. The man nods, throwing both women on his sides a judging look.

"Good." He extends his hands and Mila and Sasha take them. They look at Michonne questionably and the woman sighs, joining them. She keeps her eyes open as the man and his family start praying.

 **-o-**

The town still got no phone-lines and no water supply. It takes a couple minutes for her to remember that as she takes a look out the window at the old well outside. She's too tired to go pick up water, she figures she'll just have to go to sleep like this, covered in the city dirt. She's not used to this kind of life anymore, she thinks grimly. Or maybe it's just the shock of the first day.

She also misses Daryl. Where is he right now? Probably working after hours or lying on his couch, smoking a whole pack of cigarettes as usual. Maybe if he's lucky he could be out with Rick. Although that doesn't make her too happy. Pretty women at bars are always looking for lonely gentlemen.

 _I really wish you were here. I know it sounds like I'm too needy, but..._

She sighs. She's never been a dependent woman, from a very young age she learned to detach herself from people and get things done by her own hand. Normally, the more time she spent alone, the better she felt with herself. That was, until she got to experience real loneliness. Now every time she attaches herself to someone she just sinks her claws on that person, scared that they might disappear at any minute. Or at least that's how she feels with him. Maybe that's the reason she ran away so quickly.

As she opens one of the drawers on her night table she finds her daddy's cross. A small, dusty, wooden object hanging from a lonely string that used to hang from her father's neck. She remembers Carol's words as she takes it in her fingers and blows the dust off it.

 _I know that if he does exist, he kept me alive for a reason._

 _Maybe you're right._

Out of impulse, she puts it on, tying the string behind her neck, and fiddles with it for a while. The crucifix feels alien against her collarbone, like it doesn't really want to be there.

* * *

 _Shake it out - Florence & the Machine_

 _A/N: This chapter is short and it seems like not much happened, but I didn't want to connect it to the next one. I want to wait a little. Get the atmosphere right before I jump into the plot of this second part. Yes, since we are no longer in the city I consider this change of scenery an announcement for the second part._ _The situation has changed when it comes to the main character's relationship and the dynamic of the crime._

 _PD: I really wanna add some race problematic to the story, considering the time period and the circumstances, but I don't wanna make it forced or false. It's not like I'm completely oblivious on the subject, I belong to a racial 'minority' after all (well, in my nowadays environment anyways), which is why I wanna be careful. So if you guys see any red flag, please let me know immediately._


	22. XXII - Never let me Go

_A/N: Oh, god. I know, I failed to keep my promise, but I should've anticipated that new years eve would be the worst time to sit and write, I had so much stuff to do with my friends and family and... aaarghh... I beg your forgiveness XD. But the good news is, I may be able to post more than one chapter this month because I already wrote and edited them. Still, at some point I'm gonna have to stop and focus on my study time. I love you all people!_

* * *

 **XXII. Never Let me Go**

"Ya follow the main road, ten more miles, 'fore comin' 'cross an earth street that signals 35. Enter it and it'll lead ya straight t' da village."

"Thanks." Daryl leaves the coffee mug on the table and reaches towards his pocket in search for his wallet, when he catches the barkeep's eyes looking at him with suspicion. He holds his gaze, waiting for him to say what's on his mind.

"M' ask ya sumthin', boy?" The old man finally mutters. "Why ya goin' there? No place fer a white boy, it surely ain'."

Something cold runs down Daryl's spine at the man's words. Why must people poke their noses into matters that are not their concern?

"I ain' yer boy and it ain' yer business." He retorts angrily without thinking it too much. After a few seconds, however, he thinks it better. It isn't a very smart move to make himself sound suspicious on purpose, especially considering that this man may be a canary to some underground troublemaker. "I ain' goin' there. Just wanna be careful not to end up on da bad side a town."

The words leave a sour taste in his mouth, but they seem believable enough and the man behind the counter answers them with a hearty, toothless smile.

"I get ya, sport." Daryl doesn't answer to that, instead putting the money on the table.

"Keep da change."

"Hey sport! Careful if yer gon' travel by night not to make da wrong turn." The man warns him. "There's dis big precipice a few miles from 'ere where da path just ends. No warnings; they kept puttin' 'em an' some nigga stole 'em every time, so they gave up. Many a careless driver's gone flyin' like it was nuthin' just fer da police ta find da car at da bottom a the rocks da next day."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks." He exits the run-down establishment in the middle of the road walking towards the old chevrolet he borrowed from Rick, which is now parked dangerously close to a very shiny black car. A man with that look in his face that means trouble is leaning against its hood like he owned the bloody thing. Daryl walks up to him. "M' I gonna have a problem with ya too?" He asks in a not so friendly manner. The man looks him up and down and keeps on smoking like he hadn't heard. Daryl sighs. "Look, pal. I ain' gonna ask twice. Git da fuck off ma car."

"Or what?"

"Leave 'im Billy. We need'a roll." The big hick turns towards his pal inside the car and obeys him immediately. Such a big inferiority complex he must have if he picks up pointless fights on the road like this.

Daryl snorts at it. He's known men like him all his life. Dogs who bark loud and bite mild. Once you get them in a fight you can overpower them easily. His pa was one of them; his brother at least was a little more justified.

Merle… that fucker.

He follows the road until he spots the earth street the old man told him about. Carefully looking around to make sure no one is following he takes his turn and follows the bumpy path for a few minutes, before finding the right spot. Careful not to crash against a tree he turns his car and loses himself in the wilderness and further away from the path. He stops in front of a tree and exits the car, now surrounded by plant-life. Chances of someone finding this camouflaged piece of old, beaten down trash in the middle of these woods are low enough… good.

Daryl leans against a tree and pulls hard from the sleeves of his shirt, ripping them off. He looks inside the car and takes out a heavy artefact wrapped in linen. Its weight on his arms feels good; it's been years since he actually felt it. He un-wraps the string around it and removes the cloth and the crossbow comes out, shinning like a beauty in the sun. Well, not quite. Michonne is still a little more beautiful. But only a little. Thinking of her immediately makes his heartbeat accelerate.

 _She'd hit me if she heard that._

Or maybe she wouldn't care. She's accepted quite a lot of things a usual dame would kill him for.

So this is the road to her childhood town. She told him couple things about it, but he never thought it would be this rural or hidden from the rest of the world. Though, maybe these people were forced further into the wilderness due to what happened in Atlanta a decade ago. He doesn't know and prefers to not dwell on it. If his decision is more reckless than he first thought it would be, he'd rather not know.

He starts making his way through the woods, keeping the path in sight to make sure he won't get lost. He could surely survive it, but it would ruin his plans. The forest makes him feel more at home than the city. He knows the trees, traces, creatures living in it in a way in which he'll never know the shadows and eyes of people hiding behind dark urban windows and doors. Here in the open everything is what it seems. On the other hand this is also the place where his own ghosts like to sit around and remind him of every awful memory about his family; his poor mother who may rest in peace, his arsehole of a father who may rot in hell and his brother who may be anywhere he like for Daryl doesn't care anymore. As he keeps on walking he starts reflecting on his own childhood memories. Nostalgia is a dangerous thing for him, as he doesn't know whether he should feel horrified or happy every time he rewinds back to his early life in the country.

He recalls what Michonne used to tell him about her house as soon as he spots the small town.

It's an old two department complex where she and her cousins used to live. The back of the house is adorned by a giant cross that her father painted on the wall. Apparently he was a very religious man.

There it is.

He makes his way out of the forest, careful not to let anyone see him. He crosses the backyard without trouble and ascends the stairs, wondering if she's there.

The backdoor is closed, but the window has no lock and he opens it easily, climbing in as the world's creepiest thief.

He's got to be careful with Michonne. She's very capable of blowing his brains in one second before she can even tell it's him.

 _Yes, so why are you behaving like this, you idiot?_

Daryl sighs, finally sitting on the floor to catch his breath. He rests his back against the wall and thinks of what Carol told him that night she called him. It has him pretty worried.

 _"Pookie, I know it's five in the morning, but I got a bad feeling and I need to let you know before something terrible happens to you."_

 _"Another a yer premonitions, Cherokee Rose?" He asked, rubbing his eyes to get rid of his sleepiness. "What is it?"_

 _"I just had a dream about Sophia and it reminded me of your Magnolia." She stopped, taking a deep breath, and Daryl knew at that moment that she had been crying. "If she's planning on going back to the South, you must stop her."_

 _"How'd ya know she wan'ed a go South?" The silence on the other line made goose bumps crawl down his spine._

 _"Is she already gone?"_

 _"She left two days ago."_

 _"Goddamn. I told you that woman was nothing more than trouble."_

 _"What'cha talkin' about?" He asked, hoping Carol wouldn't prove his fears true. "This gotta do with da Governor?"_

 _A pause._

 _"I'm afraid yes." Daryl's fist punched the wall in front of him. He knew it._

 _"Why didn' ya tell me sooner?"_

 _"You think I knew?"_

 _"She didn' ask fer yer help?"_

 _"Of course not, she's smarter than that. She knew I would tell you. I just happened to find out she'd been gathering information. At first I thought she was just keeping an eye on him in case he returned to the city, but…" She stopped and he was grateful for it. He didn't want to hear anymore. His head pounded with rage and frustration._

 _After a minute or two of complete silence, he managed to recompose._

 _"Ya should open one a them crappy fortune-tellin' businesses, Cherokee rose." He said in a grim tone._

 _"I'm happy enough in my crappy gin-joint." His silence gave him away immediately. "What are you gonna do?" He knew exactly what he was gonna do. He tried to puzzle up the pieces of information he'd just received and figure out where to start looking for her and how to stop her once he reached her. "I know you've made up your mind already. But you don't need to lose yourself for another woman who's clearly as lost as the last one you had."_

 _Oh, sweet Carol. It was too late for her to try and rescue him from it._

 _"Yes, I do."_

The sounds of people approaching bring him back. Swift and silent, he moves out of sight, hiding behind a wall, dragging his crossbow with him. Two female voices are chatting outside and he can vaguely listen to their conversation and the thick accent it carries.

It takes him a while to recognize Michonne as one of the talkers. Is it really her?

He snorts at his own ignorance. Of course Michonne knows how to speak in fluent Ebonics. It's still hard to imagine her, all sophisticated, with her college-educated vocabulary, reverting back to her former accent.

It makes him love her even more.

 _Hell, at least she lost it almost completely. Ya still sound like a mix between cracker an' Chicagoan wannabe._

"He so intelligent, Michonne. It's amazin'. I been thinkin' he should become a doctor or sum' like his daddy. Would do anythin' to gettin' him into college one day."

"Nothin's impossible. Sure he can make it."

"Black boy who ain' able to talk? Mhh-mh. Don' think so."

"You thought of findin' help?"

"With what money?"

"I can lend you some…"

"Don' be ridiculous."

"I'm not." A pause. "You stubborn as hell, Sista."

 _Look who's talking,_ Daryl thinks. Sister… Michonne never mentioned she had a sister.

"Oh, so now you know how tedious it is." The other woman throws back. She seems just as sharp-tongued as his girlfriend. Run in the family? "We havin' you for dinner tonight?"

"Count on it." The door opens and light steps walk inside. He wishes he could turn around and see her. He misses her so much. _Ok, sucker, now, what's your plan?_ Hell, he doesn't have one. He needs to pray she recognizes his voice before freaking out. She lays something heavy -a shopping bag, he guesses- on the floor, still standing by the door, and he immediately knows he screwed up in something. He turns towards the window, which is now wide open. _Oh, you asshole._ "Ty? That you?" Michonne's voice comes out trembling. But it's just a moment before he hears the cylinder of her revolver spin, completely contradicting her fearful tone. "Alright, fucker, come out right this second or I'll find you an' pop a cap in yo head!"

 _That's my girl._

He puts his hands up and steps away from the wall, turning towards her. Her stone-cold expression transforms completely as her eyes widen, recognizing him.

"The accent comin' back now that yer home?" He asks, lightly.

"What you doing here?" He puts his hands down and takes a couple steps towards her. He barely registers the sound of the revolver falling to the floor as he takes her in his arms and kisses her. She swings her arms around his neck and he does the same with her waist, pulling her up so that her feet leave the floor. His tongue grazes her lips and she gives him access to her mouth. She moans against him as their tongues meet and he considers carrying her to the bedroom right now. A shower, settling down and an explanation, they can all wait.

The sound of the door suddenly opening destroys his plans completely. They pull away and he lowers her to the ground as they watch the fine figured, dark-skinned, severe-looking woman enter the house holding a jar of something in her hand.

"Sister, sorry for bothering but this probably yours, I don't use it. You must'a left it in ma bag…" Before either of them can react she turns her gaze towards them and her face contorts in horror. The jar on her hand falls to the floor with a crash and the action makes Michonne wrench free from his grasp and run towards the woman.

"Oh, my god! Sasha! You ok?"

The woman's eyes are so full of rage and hatred as they look at him… Daryl gulps. He instantly feels guilty for having her stare at him that way, though he did nothing to warrant it.

"Who the fuck are you?!" The woman suddenly screams. "The hell are you here for?!"

"Sasha, Sasha!" Michonne steps between her and him, her hands up, trying to calm her sister. "It's ok, he's no threat. He's a friend of mine."

"He can't be here, Michonne!"

"Hush, keep your voice down! Someone out there hears you he's dead!"

Holy shit, dead. Yep, this was a very bad idea indeed. Maybe he should stick to making his own improvised camp in the woods and watch over her from there.

"Should I leave?" He asks, tentative.

"No..." Michonne asserts.

"Yes!"

"Sasha!" The way the woman named Sasha is looking at him scares him shitless. He's pretty sure she wants to rip his heart through his throat and feed it to some stray dog.

"He's an ofay…!" A what?

"Ok, calm down!" He screeches, losing his patience. She takes a step back, as if he were about to attack her. What's her problem? "I'll be on my way."

Michonne takes his arm in a hard grasp.

"You can't go out there! They'll kill you!" He takes a look at the door and then turns his head towards the window.

"How ya think I got in?" He says, pointing at it with his head. Michonne's eyes widen as she understands. Sasha is about to lose it, he can tell… well, lose it even more than before. Crazy woman. "Sorry fer da inconvenience." He apologizes, though it seemingly does nothing to better the situation. As he takes a step back, Michonne comes back by his side, putting his hand on his chest.

"Daryl no, stay!" He opens his mouth to refute her, but she kisses him and he swallows his buts. The sound of rushed footsteps tells them Sasha is running away. "Sasha!" Michonne pulls away and runs towards the door. "Wait here." She says in a commanding tone, before closing it behind her.

Daryl walks back to the spot he was occupying before and falls against the wall, putting a hand on his crossbow to calm himself. Man, this was a bad idea indeed.

 **-o-**

 _Holy shit, Michonne, you're so stupid. He's so stupid. What if it had been Tyrese or Morgan instead of Sasha? You'd be in big trouble. You ARE in big trouble._

Stupid Daryl and his stupid sneaking around. What is he doing here? She thought the times when he could follow her everywhere without her even being conscious of it were over. He doesn't suspect, does he?

Ok, first things first, stopping Sasha before the woman gets the man she loves publicly executed.

"Sasha, please, don't tell Morgan! Sasha!" She stops her sister as she makes her way out her porch. The woman wrenches free from her grasp, trembling. Trying to contain her panic and rage, she takes a couple deep breaths. Michonne comes to her side, stroking her back in apology. She knows Daryl's presence has triggered a tsunami of awful memories in her. "Are you ok?" She doesn't give her an answer. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't know he would come here."

The silence lingers between them as Sasha covers her face, containing herself from bursting down in tears. Michonne hugs her tightly.

"Who is he?" She finally asks.

Oh, shit. How is she supposed to explain this to her sister of all people?

"A man I love very much." Sasha pulls away, looking at her indignant.

"Oh, fucking hell, Michonne! You dating white men now?!" Yes, that reaction was what she expected.

"Seriously? Don't be like that, Sasha, it's beneath you."

"Beneath me?!"

"Yes, beneath you! We have enough problems with racism as it is! We don't need a turn the cards around, it won't solve anything!" The woman huffs.

"Gimme a break from yo lawyer speech, will you?! What you know about racism anyways?! You had it cool in the North will all yo black-lovin' friends!"

"Ok, shut up!" Michonne snaps. "I was in the fuckin' police department! We can talk about black-lovin' friends when you have your own colleagues throw steaming coffee on your shirt because you refused to sleep with them!" Sasha stays silent after that. "You're not going to tell Morgan, are you?"

"No, I wouldn't do that to you." Michonne sighs, relieved. It lifts the tension between them a little bit. "But is he going to stay in there?"

"Don't know, we've to talk it over. He's probably just paying me a visit." Sasha puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head in reprobation.

"A visit without telling you shit?"

"That's just how he is. Oh, don't give me that look, you don't even know him. He's a wonderful man, sister, take my word for it. You know how hard it is for me to fall for someone, it means he's worth it."

Sasha still looks at her in that manner that says she's not happy with her life choices. First time Michonne's had her be disappointed in her, to be honest.

"I suppose you ain't gon' come for dinner tonight then, eh?" She asks and she notices the passive aggressiveness of the question.

"I should stay with him. Maybe he'll be too tired." Her sister purses her lips in disapproval and nods, turning her back on her and walking back to the apartment she shares with her brother.

Well, that went peachy.

 **-o-**

Though she's nuts, Sasha is a gorgeous woman. The kind Rick would like very much. Her skin is a little lighter than Michonne's, so she must have mulatto blood. That sounds bollocks. He's too ignorant of the black american folk, he realizes with shame. Looking at her and his girlfriend, however, there is no way they are real sisters. There's no resemblance…

"Oh, thank god. For a minute there I thought you had really left." He lifts his head at Michonne who is standing in front of him.

"Yer friend aight?" She tilts her head at the fact that he's still sitting on the floor.

"She will be, don't worry about it. She's just not used to seein' white people in here. Besides, it's dangerous." He nods, jumping up and taking her in his arms again.

"It's worth it fer bein' with ya." She kisses him, joyful.

"You're a crazy, reckless hothead. Seriously, why you even here?"

 _Here comes the explanation_ , he thinks. He would've liked it better if Sasha hadn't come through that door and he had had the chance to make love to Michonne before. He can't be honest with her, but that should be ok, because she wasn't honest with him either.

"Ya never told me when ya'd be back." He starts. "Thought ya might be runnin' off."

She lifts her eyebrow at that.

"You _know_ I'm not running off." He swallows hard and nods. He can see right through her. She disentangles her arms from his neck and walks back a few steps, before looking down and mirroring his nod. They both can tell the other is lying but the fear of admitting it or throwing it in their faces is too big. Maybe because, if they stop to analyze it properly, the conflict will definitely lead to a separation. And that's something neither of them want. "So, you decided to follow me instead?"

"When ya say it that way sounds like I'm crossing da line."

"The line for what?"

He starts pacing back and forth.

"We seriously havin' this conversation now?" He asks, irritated. She puts her hands on her hips, watching as he walks away from her. "I don' know. Perhaps I made a mistake by comin' 'ere. Seems our feelings fer each other ain' the same after all."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?" He turns to her.

"Put my feelings into question."

 _Maybe I wouldn't if you let me understand you._

Why can't they be just a normal, gay* couple? Why can't she be less broken and him less of an asshole? Why is it that the universe seems bent on preventing them from connecting completely?

After a moment of silence he sighs.

"Let's not fight right now."

"Let's not."

He looks at her, uncertain.

"Am I crossing da line?" She takes a step towards him.

"No. I want you here."

She seems honest, but it may as well be that he can't read her so well this time.

"Ok."

 **-o-**

 _I want you here, love. I do._

She opens the door to the bathroom and enters it. He's standing with his back to her, shirtless. The way his muscles stretch, still sweaty from the heat and the exertion, is glorious to look at. He's checking something in the mirror. Did he hurt himself while coming here?

She comes from behind and puts her arms around his waist, unfastening his belt with her hands. He sighs as she sneaks a hand underneath his pants and starts stroking his penis.

"I've missed you." She whispers against his ear. "You've missed me?" Her hands start going faster and his breathing hitches. He pulls his head back and she pecks his neck.

"You've no idea."

For once since arriving here, she's grateful the shower doesn't work. Gives both of them the perfect excuse to waste all the time of the world inside the bathtub. It's small and scamped and the water is cold, but being here with him makes it enjoyable at last. She takes the time to scrub all the dirt from his body, going into places she can tell he never washes, like behind his ears or under his nape.

"You're a naughty, naughty bundy." He bites her ear at that, taking the rug from her hands. She laughs as he pulls her onto his lap. "I'm afraid of what I might find if I wash your hair."

"Then don', I'll do it myself." He slaps her hand softly as she takes the bottle of shampoo.

"Hey! Bad bundy!" He laughs at that.

"Let me wash yer hair."

"You don't know how to do it."

"Is there a science?"

"For curly hair like mine? Yes. It takes time and effort and you don't know how to do it."

"I can help ya though."

"You really wanna?" He takes one strand of hair and tangles it in his finger lovingly. She smiles and kisses him.

It's the first time they bathe together. This relationship is so young and yet she feels like she's known him her entire life. She's gotten so used to this perfect sensation of comfort every time she's with him...

He moves closer to her, pressing his body against hers in the water. He guides himself inside her, his mouth sucking her nipple, driving her mad. She kisses him, crazy with desire, and starts riding him relentlessly, mewling against his lips as his thrusts make her reach the clouds.

"Ya like that, angel?"

"Yes..." her nails scratch his back as she rides her orgasm. "Yeeeessss."

She comes undone, clinging to him for dear life.

After recovering her breath, she finally convinces him to let her wash his hair. He washes hers in exchange, as carefully as possible. They use extra pails of water they collected from the well just in case; for the water of the bathtub is not exactly clean anymore. It takes a while, but his hands massaging her scalp are something she wouldn't complain about. She closes her eyes and lays her head against his chest, resting.

"Made ya sleepy, eh?" He asks her once he's done. She nods and nudges further against his neck, feeling and hearing his soft chuckle. He gets her out of the water and manages to wrap a towel around her like a little child, before taking her in his arms and walking out of the bath and into the bedroom. He lays her on the bed, discarding the towel and covering her with the blanket; not that this weather needs it. She extends her hand to him, calling him by her side, and he complies, laying next to her. His hand loses itself in her wet hair, drawing her closer so he can give her a kiss goodnight.

"Never let me go." She whispers irrationally against his lips before falling into slumber.

* * *

 _Undisclosed Desires - Muse_

 _* Gay not in the sense of 'homosexual'. At that time it was used as a synonym for 'happy'._

 _I know throwing steaming coffee on someone may not sound as bad, but coffee that is too hot can seriously burn your skin. It's like throwing boiling water at someone. It's bound to cause serious burns, so it's actually a very big threat._

 _And… I have to be honest with you… this chapter required a lot of suspension of disbelief for me at least, because, well... bathtub sex sucks. But I still thought it was something this fic needed cause it's cute for a couple to bathe together. There are a lot of sweet moments that can derive from that. Besides, almost every fic I've read has some underwater sex scene dangling around. I wanted to be part of the club XD._


	23. XXIII - What we Lost in the Fire

**XXIII. What we lost in the Fire**

"He likes the crossbow." Daryl crouches next to the little boy. His small hands hold onto the artifact, his eyes big with wonder. He smiles at Sasha, who looks concerned.

"It's ok, we're bein' careful." Daryl assures her and she nods. "What's yer name lil fella?" He looks up to his mother, who answers for him.

"Roger." Daryl smiles and the boy smiles back, timid.

"He don' talk much." The woman purses her lips at that.

"Not since his dad's death."

 _Ouch. Bad line in a bad moment, ass._

"Sorry, didn' mean a…"

"No, it's ok. And I wanted to apologize for the way I behaved yesterday." Daryl gets up and shrugs. "It's not that I think all whites are the same, it's just..."

"Ya got reasons a mistrust, I get it." She gives him a light smile, before taking her little son in her arms.

"Roger, dinner time. Let's go wash them dirty hands." Daryl makes way for her to pass as Michonne comes back to his side, kissing him on the cheek.

"You too, bad bundy." He kisses her, smiling at her cheekiness.

"New nickname a yers?"

"It suits you." She passes her hand through his hair. He knows why she's saying it; it's too long and unruly now, even for his liking. "Tell Rick to call Jessie so she can give you a haircut."

"Hate her haircuts, they're horrible."

"So, you know her."

"Ya jealous." It's not a question and she huffs.

"Well, she stole one beau from me already."

"She likes well put chiefs a police, not dirty rednecks like me. So, ya got nothin' a worry about." Tyrese clearing his throat as he comes from the kitchen interrupts them.

"Wanna help with the table, sir? Our women be way too emancipated to do household tasks." He says, putting a big casserole on the table. Michonne throws him a dirty look and Daryl nods, a small smile on his lips as he makes his way towards the young girl holding the plates. He takes them from her hands and catches her slight blush.

"So, you a cop too?" She asks, turning from side to side in that way teenage girls do when they're close to a boy they fancy.

"Investigator." Daryl answers, mortified by the young girl's reaction to him.

"Oh." She answers. Tyrese throws a look at Michonne.

"That how you met 'Chonne?" He asks. Daryl gulps.

"Long story."

"We got time." An awkward pause and both lovers share a look.

"She had this case that was kinda dangerous, so I was told ta keep an eye on 'er."

"By whom?"

"A friend a hers. An' mine." the tall, muscular man looks at him doubtfully.

"That ain't a long story at all."

"Not the way I tell it." Tyrese bombarding him with questions is just as awkward as that time he met Carol's husband. Though, this time it is probably the man in front of him the one who wants to kill him instead of the other way around.

"We ready?" Michonne asks, rescuing him.

"We ready." Tyrese asserts. Once Sasha's come back with the kid they all sit down. Daryl watches as the family joins hands to pray, even Michonne, whom he thought didn't believe in this stuff anymore. Yesterday, as he was undressing her, he came across the wooden crucifix on her neck. The notion of engaging in nonmarital sex with that thing looking at him with accusation was enough to turn anyone off in one second. Thank god she took it off. It still rests on her night-table nonetheless and she sometimes takes it to town, sort of as if she was reconciling herself with some part of her past she fiercely rejected all those years ago. Daryl wonders why that is. He doesn't know how to feel about it himself. He always thought god was only a fairy tale told to children to give them hope. His mother used to pray and it did little to nothing to help her. His father used to quote the bible and that didn't make him less of a monster. And his brother…

 _I ain' gonna beg! I never begged ya, I ain' gonna start now!_ Daryl winces and shuts off the painful memory. Michonne's hand releases his and he realizes she took it too. The family have finished their prayer and prepare to eat.

"You go huntin' today?" Sasha asks him. Oh, great, let the interrogatory continue. He looks down at his attire, completely covered in mud and sweat. For once in his life, he's happy he didn't catch anything. Him barging into the house with a squirrel-belt strapped to his waist would leave an even worse impression than it already has.

"Yeah. Sorry, had no time a change clothes or… leave ma weapon."

"He wanted to leave it outside, but I told him it was a bad idea." Michonne intervenes.

"It is." Sasha says. "Are you any good? I'm a pretty good shot myself, but it's very dangerous to use a shotgun here. The wrong person may hear. A silent weapon be much more practical." Daryl catches the undertone in the woman's statement. So does Michonne, who leaves the fork and puts a protective hand on his thigh. "Michonne still got her dusty rabbit machete somewhere around too. Don't you, girl?"

She nods at that.

"My, my. The air a lil' chilly tonight?" Tyrese comments, throwing his sister a look. For a few minutes the silence in the table turns dangerous.

"So, ya two are Michonne's… siblings?" Daryl ventures, trying to break it. Mila snorts so hard she chokes on her food.

"What so funny, lady? Don' make me whoop you." Tyrese scolds her. "You see any resemblance between us?" He asks Daryl.

The question is a trap and the man swallows hard, not knowing if he should respond or not. If he says yes, it means he's racist. If he says no, it means he's racist. Luckily, Michonne's noisy sigh seems to come to his rescue yet again.

"We cousins. I call 'em brother and sister 'cause they the closest to such a thing I ever had." She picks on her food forcefully, like she's murdering something. "So, Mila: You got some awkward, passive aggressive question to ask our main suspect?" The girl jumps at that, clearly not wanting to be put in the spotlight.

"I think your beau's really handsome." She whispers and the comment makes him turn red from shame.

Her sweetly admitting her slight crush on him finally serves to lift the tension in the atmosphere and his girlfriend finally relaxes.

"Thank you." She tells Mila.

 **-o-**

"We just bein' careful, Chonne. We got reasons to mistrust." Tyrese says in an apologetic tone.

"You should trust me. You really think I would bring a killer to this place?" She asks, trying her best to keep calm, though her nerves are getting the best of her. Damn these two knuckle-heads.

"Well, that's the thing, sister, you didn't bring him here, he just came without even telling you." Sasha intervenes. "Why would he do that?"

"Why did you even apologize to him if you're still gonna be this hostile, Sasha?" Michonne snaps, conscious she's not answering the question.

Both siblings throw her a hard look.

"We just worry 'bout you, girl. One day you'll thank us for being on our guard."

 _I can take care of myself and he's not a threat._

Michonne shakes her head and turns away.

"Give Mila and Roger a kiss for me." She says, exiting their porch.

As she makes her way into her own house, Daryl's already climbed through the window.

"Feel like a criminal every time I do that." He snickers. He seems strangely upbeat for a man who's been passively attacked non-stop for an entire hour. He notices her scowl and comes to her, wrapping his arms around her. "Hey… come 'ere, love."

"I'm so sorry…"

"It's ok."

"No, it's not!" She wants to cry from anger. He turns her face towards his.

"It's ok." She sighs and kisses him hard, pushing him against the table. He's muddy and grimy, but she doesn't give a shit about that right now.

"Make love to me." She pleads.

"Now?"

"Now."

"Here?"

"Here, there… wherever you like." Her hands fly towards the back of her dress, opening it and letting it fall to the floor. She reaches to his shirt and tears it open, ducking to suck on his clavicle. He grunts and takes her face in his hands again, forcing her to look at him.

"Hey… look at me." She sighs and opens her eyes and he sees right through them. Sees her fear and her rage and her hate against this horrible world that has made people mistrusting and hostile; this world that's bent on dooming their love. "I'd take any blow come my way just ta be with ya. I almost got shot fer ya back at the city an' if I got shot in here again, I wouldn' care."

"You're perfect." She whispers. "This is perfect. I love this so much; I love you so much…" She strokes his hair.

"Me too."

"Tell me..."

"I love ya."

"You mean it?" He looks hard into her eyes.

"I love ya." He repeats and she nods. He pulls her down onto the floor, removing all her clothes.

A couple hours later, lying comfortably naked on a blanket spread across the floor, she finally dares to explain it to him.

"Sasha's husband was a man named Bob… He worked in a town nearby."

"A doctor?" She nods.

"He was a truly amazing man. Great husband, great father… one of those remarkable people of which there are so few left in this world… but, he was born with the wrong skin-color. Like all of us." He kisses her shoulder, his hand drawing strange patterns on her back. "There was this case where this white woman got raped; the rapist was probably another white man. There was evidence for that. But no one believed the evidence, they believed the cover up. They called for justice; got Bob and five other men from our community and they… burned them alive." She stays silent for a few moments. "The police did nothing about it, as usual. Sasha's boy was four; he had been in his daddy's praxis by the time the mob got him, hiding under the desk. He saw them take Bob; hasn't been able to speak ever since."

He takes a few moments to digest the story. The picture of a scared little boy hiding and crying his eyes out in horror and guilt while witnessing something terrible, is something he's quite familiar with. It strikes a chord deep inside his heart.

 _So, Sasha, she has her reasons._ He wouldn't be much different from her if the same thing had happened to him.

"Back when I was a child, I used to hate ya people without reason." He whispers, ridden by guilt. "An' ya done nothin' to our family; we just did it cause it seemed right." She moves away, as if he had wounded her. "People hafta have sumthin' a hate. It's the way a the world. At least yer cousin hates people like me fer a reason."

 _The land of the free and the just. Yeah, right._

"One day the world will change." She whispers. "We won't have to hide; my people won't have to suffer…" He swallows hard and remains silent. "You believe it, don't you?"

"Ya do?" Her silence reveals her uncertainty. "I ain' care no more. This country, this world can go to hell; it's been hell fer me ever since I was born." He pulls her closer, she seems reluctant at first. "Here by yer side, though, this nightmare makes a lil' bit a sense."

Her smile is sad and defeated.

"If only the world had more men like you…" She kisses him and moves away, standing and taking his hand to pull him up.

"Idiots like me usually die young."

"Maybe they wouldn't if they weren't so goddamn reckless." He wraps the both of them in the blanket, pressing her body against his. Her skin is always so mind-blowingly warm…

"Don' break yerself tryna fix this world, baby. It ain' worth it." She sighs against his chest and he feels her soft nod against his skin. She's given up. He's made her give up. He doesn't know whether to feel happy about it or extremely guilty.

* * *

 _Sinnerman - Nina Simone_


	24. XXIV - Land of the Free

_I cannot read your reviews, but I'm sure they are lovely. I love you all people!_

* * *

 **XXIV. Land of the Free**

"Ya like it?" He asks. Careful, he lets the woman hold the crossbow right before releasing it. Her ebony eyes are just as big as her kid's and it amuses him. "Ever used one?"

"Once or twice. Long ago."

"Wanna try?" She looks at him, tentative. "Come on."

"No big deal? I might break it." He just smiles at that. Sasha is pretty good with weapons. Especially long shot aiming weapons. She would be useful in the police department.

"Charge." He shows her how to do it until she gets the idea and smiles, triumphant. "See? Nothin' broken. It's better than a machete."

"Tell that to 'Chonne." They look at each other humorously. "I still like my rifle better."

It's been almost a month since he's here and thank god that the woods around town are deep, otherwise his claustrophobia inside that house would've gotten ugly.

His relationship with the other two persons who know about him is also getting better. At first the Williams brothers were happy to not cross his way, but they started to get used to him when he started bringing small presents to the house. This forest is full of rabbits and it seems like something about hunting brings good memories in them.

After many meetings in which he didn't know whether to be afraid or mad at them, they finally seemed to accept him. Now Sasha usually sneaks out of the house while Mila is taking care of Roger to go hunting with him.

She says it's a protection measure in case he happens to cross one of the townspeople who don't know he's here. But he can see it in her eyes that she likes hunting and tracking in the woods too.

When it's not her, it's Michonne the one coming with him, but he doesn't like to see her out here, stalking silently away from him. Maybe it is because she's better than Sasha at sneaking around silently and disappearing, and that makes him anxious.

He's tried to find out whether she's been gathering information every time she goes to town. The few times he's managed to sneak around he hasn't found out a thing. He feels awful about going behind her back, but if that's what he has to do in order to protect her from herself, then he'll do it.

The sudden move catches their attention. It's small and swift, a rabbit. He smiles at her and signals in the direction of the creature, Sasha answers with a nod and stalks behind it. She can take this one; he'll leave her to it. As the woman in front of him takes a step further into the wilderness, a sound, like that of a branch crashing under someone's foot, catches his attention. It's so soft he almost misses it, another hunter perhaps. But it's too close and cautious: hunter hunting them.

His senses activate in alert: _enemy._

It's too late now to call for Sasha, but the woman's probably safer far away and in oblivion. Daryl can handle one man.

He takes a step back, careful not to make a sound, and looks around. A few steps away from him a shadow moves swiftly and Daryl loses it again in the trees. Quickly, he follows it, taking his knife from his belt. As he turns around and presses his back against a tree a sudden knock, like that of a stick hitting the bark of a tree makes him turn his head.

 _The hell?_

He takes a careful step towards the place where he thinks he heard it. Big mistake; a quick move behind him registers too late and the shadow jumps to sight, hitting the back of his skull so hard he thinks it's going to explode.

"Shit!" He curses as he falls to the ground, holding his head. He quickly turns on his back and his attacker is there: a dark skinned man holding a long staff between his hands: Probably from the community, though very unusual. Daryl can't say he's met many easy folk people who move like ninjas. The end of the staff is pointing at him and Daryl thinks he could disarm him easily. He tries, but as soon as he gets up the staff hits him hard across the waist and throws him face first against the leaves on the ground. The stick dangles close to his head again, but he puts his hands up. "Yield!"

The man jumps back, his stick still pointing up. _He's quick as hell and silent as a wildcat_ , Daryl thinks. The way he handles that staff in his hand is almost supernatural. And he's eyeing him with the same hate and fear Sasha had when she first found him in Michonne's house.

 _I'm a dead man now._

"What you doin' here, ofay?" He asks in a hoarse voice. Daryl swallows hard. _Calm down, pal, I ain't no threat._ This man is probably going to call bullshit on anything he says. But he has to try anyways.

"Huntin. Fer rabbits."

"There ain' no rabbits in these woods no more." Liar.

"Found a trace." He answers lamely.

"You fool nobody. Came here for a reason?" He doesn't answer. _Yes, I came here to see my girlfriend; I've been living hidden in her house for almost a month now._ The truth sounds even worse than the all the lame lies he can come up with right now. He knows the law, he's not going to drag Michonne down with him if he happens to get caught. "I asked you a question."

"Daryl?!" Sasha comes running after them, a rabbit bouncing in her left hip and his crossbow in her hands. _Clever hunter_ , Daryl thinks. She lowers the weapon as she sees both men. "Morgan! Stop!"

"Sasha!" the man named Morgan puts a hand up as he turns to her. "It's alright, go back home, you safe!"

She knows that already; she's clearly more scared of what may happen to Daryl.

"He's with me!" She shouts. An awkward silence precedes her words. "I mean… he ain't no threat, he a friend of ours."

"What?!" Morgan shouts in disbelief.

"Long story…" Daryl mumbles, but Sasha interrupts him.

"He knows Michonne Johnson. He's her…" Daryl tries to warn her not to say another word, but it is too late. "Boyfriend."

The man hits his forehead with his hand. Morgan's rage is not being appeased. He turns towards Daryl on the floor; the expression in his eyes is even wilder than before.

"I don't think you know the laws of your own country, Ofay." He spits, hateful.

 _Well, shit… this is definitely… a bad predicament._

 **-o-**

"You know who those men are? Haven't seen them around." Michonne turns her head towards the six men watching them closely on the other side of the street. Her heart falls to her stomach. It can't be. Yes, she spotted them before Tyrese did. She's avoided making too much eye contact with them, but she thinks she knows who they are. Which is really bad. "You ok?" Her 'brother' asks her, putting a hand on her shoulder to calm her tremble.

"Let's go." She answers forcefully, opening the door to the car.

Tyrese comes sit by her side, turns on the engine and drives off; the men losing themselves in the distance. Fear and rage travel through her bones. If her suspicions are right, then the Woodbury Gang is looking for her. She knows they've founded their refuge far from here. There's no other reason why they would've come to this small, forgotten town.

 _He's after ya now. Won' give up until one of ya two's dead._ Daryl's voice reminds her.

Had she stayed in the city, even that wouldn't have saved her family. She's sure Philip would've looked for them regardless in an effort to destroy her as much as he possibly could.

 _Yes, you might have gotten the chance, if I were different, like you expect me to be. But I'm not Andrea, Philip. You're gonna regret everything once you realize you're messing with the wrong woman._

"Your man coming to dinner?" Tyrese asks, sensing her fear. He doesn't question her, instead choosing to calm her down. If he only knew the danger she's gotten him into…

"Yeah." She whispers, recomposing herself and looking out the window to the passing woods. "You gotten used to him?"

"Not as much as Sasha an' Mila." The man says with a smile. "Quite a heartthrob he is, eh? I'd never guess from just lookin' at him."

Yeah, it's true. Mila is hopelessly in love with him and Sasha… she's not so far from that either. Michonne smiles softly as she remembers her confession from two days ago. _'He got nice blue eyes. I like 'em.'_

Coming from another woman, that comment would have put Michonne on her guard, but her 'sister' loves her too much to cross that line. She only meant it as a compliment. Still, if Daryl starts making every woman in the world fall in love with him like this she might be in need of a whip to scare them away.

"Oh, don't be such a jealous pigeon, 'Chonne. He only has eyes for you. I can tell. And you… I know you when you fall in love; biggest airhead in the world." He laughs. "I know true love when I see it. You shouldn't waste it."

Thinking of Daryl waiting for her, unwilling to run away, sworn loyally to love her every step of the way, just makes things harder. _Is it true love, then? Are we just a pair of star-crossed lovers with no rest granted to us?_

"I don't want to." _Though I may be forced to._ They park the car near the house and her 'brother' helps her carry the shopping bags to the house. "Your auntie Celia had green eyes, didn't she?" Michonne asks as they make their way through the earth-street.

"Yeah, green and yellow like a hoodoo witch." She nods at that. They were very small when the woman died and her memory is foggy.

"You guys have some white ancestor somewhere in your family tree then."

"Probably from the times of the civil war. Why?"

"No reason." Tyrese cackles at that.

"He told you to ask?" He asks, humorously. "Why not ask himself?"

"He scared if he asks you directly you'll rip his heart through his throat and feed it to some stray dog." Michonne answers truthfully.

"Tell him our hoodoo times be over an' done with."

"Was auntie Celia really a hoodoo witch?"

"Who knows? She came from New Orleans after all. Remember the stories she used to tell us?"

"Still make me shiver."

"Tell 'em to yo man, that way we make sure he never screws you over." A figure in a marine-blue dress exits Michonne's house and runs down the steps of the porch, approaching them with a fearful scowl. Tyrese leaves on of the bags on the floor as he sees her. "Sasha! Everything alright?"

"You in big trouble, Chonne." She tells the woman. "Morgan found out."

Michonne swallows hard. On top of everything...

"Shit." She comments, laconically, rushing past Tyrese and following Sasha into the house.

 **-o-**

He was incredibly glad to see Sasha rush from the window to the door. For over an hour now, Morgan's been questioning him non-stop.

 _How'd you two met? What are your intentions towards her? Why are you here exactly? Why wasn't I informed immediately? What kind of northerner metropolitan uses a crossbow? Is your name really Daryl Dixon?_

He's not used to this anymore, it is normally him the one questioning criminal suspects, not the other way around. However Morgan's questions are ten times better than his intimidating silence and his death-stare constantly set on him. If stares could kill, he'd already burnt him to the ground.

What's this guy's big idea? Why does he seem so freaking mad at him? Besides the fact that Daryl's an ofay - as he calls him -, what did he do to warrant such hate? He's surely not be the first ofay to sneak in here.

 _Suppose that ever since I got here I somehow became part of a weird contest called 'hate the Redneck'_. Daryl thinks, humorously. Morgan scowls at his smile and the man drops it, feeling chastised.

"Morgan… Chonne's here." Sasha says as she comes back in, Michonne following her. Morgan is sitting in the kitchen, his staff resting on his legs. He turns around and his eyes fly right towards the arriving woman, seizing her up with something Daryl can only read as deep melancholy. A pang of jealousy sparks inside him at that. He's sitting opposite to him, as muddy and disheveled as always, his fingers tapping nervously on the wooden surface of the table. He's glad Michonne is back and safe; not so glad of the predicament he's in right now, though.

"Ma sister make things difficult?" Tyrese asks, barging through the door, ready to defend the devil, like always.

"Shut up!" Sasha yelps, looking at him with accusation. He ignores her and takes a step forward, but Morgan puts his hand up, commanding him to keep his distance.

"'Fore you kill him I wan' tell you, he an ok guy…" the man starts, nervous.

"I already told him that." Sasha retorts.

"Well, I'm here to second you."

"Since when you second me in anythin'?"

"Stop it, both of you!" Michonne snaps and both siblings look at each other as if they were about to start pulling from each other's hair.

Daryl looks at the Williams brothers fondly, giving them a reassuring smile.

"Thank you. But I think we're ok here, ain' we?" He asks, turning to Morgan.

"Not entirely." The man says in a low tone of voice. "Come sit here, Chonne." He orders. "Your witnesses can go, the accused is safe." Sasha and Tyrese look at each other, insecure, but one hard stare from Michonne makes them retire. As they close the door behind them, the woman walks towards the table, sitting next to Daryl. Her hand covers the one nervously tapping on the wood, stopping it, but also trying to give him reassurance. Morgan sighs and after a moment of silence, starts chiding them. "Look, lovebirds. Things may be different up north, where you two come from. I wish they were different in here too, but they aren't. They catch you two together, you dead." He stares hard into Daryl's eyes, making sure he's understanding him clearly. "My people don't like your kind living here. We've had too many bad experiences in the past…"

"Morgan, he ain't like them…" His girlfriend starts, but Morgan puts his hand up again and she bites her tongue.

"Let me speak, Chonne. I know… not every white man is the same. But taking too many risks is something I cannot allow myself anymore."

The couple stay silent, wondering what that means. Finally, Daryl dares to wonder.

"So… ya want me gone?" He asks, and Michonne tenses next to him. Morgan notices it; he looks down, weighing his choices.

"As much as I hate to say it, you two safer here than out there. And knowing this woman she ain't gon' let you go alone." The couple let out a sigh of relief at his words. "I trust Michonne, but it's only because of her." He turns to the woman. "Next time you want to sneak some white lover in here, you let me know, girl. Understood?" Both nod like naughty kids getting scolded by their daddy. Morgan takes a deep breath and leans against the chair, his eyes traveling from her to him and to their conjoined hands on the table. "Alright, now… I could use somethin' to drink."

"Something hard?" Michonne asks stepping up and walking towards the kitchen counter.

"A simple tea will do."

The rest of the inquisition goes surprisingly well. Once he realizes Daryl is a decent man who doesn't necessarily pose a threat, Morgan sheds his intimidating façade and becomes a very likable man. He's also a war veteran, captured in Japan. Him and his friend Eastman managed to escape one of the most awful prisoner camps; and the man taught him how to use that staff of his as a self-defense mechanism and a way of meditation that'd later help him get over his PTSD for the things he had witnessed during his time as a hostage.

Eastman died of an infected wound before he could ever make it out of Japan; Morgan still carries his rabbit-foot and tries to follow his philosophy of 'all life is precious', even though his circumstances sometimes make that harder than ever.

"I ain' know if things gettin' better or worse. No one dares touch us now, but you can actually see the reason why: Nothing worth destroying here anymore. We all just Atlanta survivors tryna make it again, building houses out of mud and hoping they'll stand the storm. Out there we still nothing but scum."

Daryl feels like he should say something, but he can't formulate phrases that sound hopeful and true at the same time.

"I wish I could tell ya and Chonne that things'll change. But I ain' know it myself." Morgan smiles at that.

"Well, at least you honest."

 **-o-**

"Thank you, Morgan." She tells the man as they walk side by side in direction of his house. The house he now only shares with his son, for his wife died five years ago. God, her people have lost so much…

"Don't mention it." He gives her a warm smile and throws an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. "Last time I saw you you were a mess. Glad you're getting your life back on track." _My life is not on track yet. He's here, ready to destroy everything I hold dear again._ She thinks. Morgan swallows, feeling her tense under his embrace. He knows her too well, can see right through her silence. "He an ok guy. You sure he deserves you?"

"Question is not whether he deserves me, is whether I deserve him." Morgan keeps silent at that. Even though they haven't seen each other in years, they still remember the times when they were much more than just friends. And the flame that sparked from that affair between two teenagers in love was never properly vanished. "You jealous?" She asks, tentative. Morgan's lips curl up in a smile.

"A little. You're the most beautiful woman I ever met." He pulls her a little closer and she looks down, blushing slightly.

"You never married me, though."

"Don't start." Michonne giggles. "You were fifteen. And I was a 17-year old you circumstantially had a crush on." _It was more than a crush_ , Michonne thinks. Morgan was her first love in every sense of the word. "If I had married you you would've never gotten out of here."

"You're right." They both stop in front of his house. "So... you saved my future by rejecting me."

"And only to see my girl in the arms of a white man."

"You think I should be with one of my own?" Morgan flashes her a sad smile.

"I don't think love has any rules, pretty girl. Be it black, white, yellow, orange... if that man makes you happy you better keep him."

 **-o-**

"How many men in this world are in love with ya?" He asks her as she kisses him again, trying to get him to spit whatever it is that's bugging him tonight.

"More than a thousand. Haven't you looked at your girl? She gorgeous." Tyrese puts a comforting hand on the man's shoulder, flashing him a smile.

"Morgan and her had a lil' thing going on 'fore she left to college." Sasha comments as she comes in with Mila and Roger and sits in front of them on the table.

"Can we not talk about my private life please?" The alluded pleads her 'siblings'.

It's quite obvious, though, that that's the case.

At first he didn't understand why Morgan seemed especially mad at him. The notion of him having some particular kind of fancy for Michonne crossed his mind as he sat with the man in the kitchen for long hours. It makes a lot of sense that there's more than one man fixated in the dark-skinned beauty that is his girlfriend. But by what he could see later it had been quite mutual at some point in their lives. No, he doesn't see Morgan as a threat. Michonne has a special fondness for the man, but there's no more desire or lust in the way she sees and approaches him.

Still, it makes him feel even more worthless of her affections. Rick and Morgan aren't exactly rich businessmen; they are, however, strong leaders who started out in deep shit and made their own way in the world. They have their lives more or less figured out. He's quite a loser. White trash who could never find his brother nor his ex-girlfriend's little daughter. What's his excuse, really?

Michonne moves closer to her boyfriend and kisses him again, deeply, in an effort to vanish his insecurities. The sound of Tyrese banging his wooden spoon against the table makes them pull apart.

"Hey!" He retorts. "New rule on the house! No snugging' in front of the kids!"

"Let them lovebirds be, dad." Mila says, looking at the couple fondly. "It's cute."

Little Roger takes his own spoon and starts banging in on the table like he saw his uncle do before, only for Sasha to take it from his hands. Hell breaks lose when he starts crying.

 **-o-**

She comes out of the bathroom, in her nightdress, and finds him sitting on the bed with a taciturn expression in his handsome face.

"Still jealous for Morgan?" She mocks, sitting next to him and putting her arms around his neck. He turns to her, his eyes dark like the midnight sea. "What's wrong?" She asks, concerned. This isn't just normal jealousy she's seeing, this is something else. Fear.

Being with Daryl Dixon is hard sometimes. For every great moment they spend together there are a couple that go ridiculously wrong. Moments of intense insecurities and distrust and lack of honesty. But this is what she signed up for when she chose him, isn't it?

"Lovin' ya is complicated, 's all."

"I warned you in time." He kisses her with possessiveness. His hand grabs her breast and squeezes tight, making her gasp, and he lays her on the bed, pressing himself against her between her legs. She throws her head back, giving him access to her neck and he immobilizes her hands above her head, kissing her up and down. His touch is more insistent, demanding and dominant than usual. He's not being aggressive, but she can tell he won't give up on control this time. It doesn't bother her, though. "I'm sorry." She whispers, intuitively.

"Fer what?" She doesn't know. Everything around them seems more complicated now and she's scared shitless of what may happen to him and her family if Philip really is looking for revenge.

"I'm not sure." She lies again. If he can tell she's doing it, he never says it. He just thugs from her clothes a little hard, exposing her skin so that he can taste it at will. She moans when he starts eating her out, biting her clit softly while his fingers move inside her. He keeps on fucking her with them even after she's come down from her orgasm. Just when she's about to squirt again he takes them out and stands up, his hands opening the belt of his pants and pulling them down. He enters her hard and starts moving, but she yelps in discontent. He stops. "Don't… don't move, stay there for a while." She asks, pulling him closer and wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him. Her hands trace the firm muscles of his back, memorizing them for the twenty-seventh time. Each of his scars are now as much a part of her as they are of him.

"Ya like me inside ya?" He asks in a hoarse voice; she nods. After a couple seconds he starts moving again, thrusting her deep, and she moans, pulling him against her, every nerve in her body activated to a hundred. "Ya like it when I make love to ya?" She nods again. "Answer. Say my name."

"Yes, Daryl. I like it." He kisses her, drunken with need, his tongue a snake attacking and her, Eve, surrendering to sin in the sweetest way possible. He turns her around and puts a hand on her back, making her bend until her chest kisses the mattress. He slaps her ass softly and she giggles. "Go on, cowboy." Her voice stirs him and he guides his throbbing manhood inside her, making her whine in pleasure.

Once in her he rides her hard and fast, plunging deep into her flesh, his hands on her hips pulling her back and forth so that her ass clashes against his skin every time he penetrates her. His balls hit her clitoris with every thrust and the magnificent mix drives her over the edge, as waves of pleasure fall on top of each other until she can't take it anymore.

"Oh, god! Harder!" She whimpers, finally hitting her breaking point. His cock hits repeatedly that bud of nerves inside her and she comes undone, her whole body shaking at the sensation.

He keeps on fucking her through her orgasm and she falls back down just to feel it building once more. Her mind goes blank again and she clutches the bedsheets until her knuckles go white, drowning her scream on the pillow. He spends his seed inside her, but she doesn't care. She knows her cycle. He leans his damp, warm chest against her back and falls to the side, dragging her with him. He's still inside; she likes that. It makes the aftermath of their orgasm even sweeter.

"Yer still conscious?" He asks, worried.

"Yeah."

"Fer a minute there I thought I'd gone too far."

"I like it when you go far." She likes his dominance, she can get used to it. She falls into slumber, but only for a few minutes. The feeling of a fall makes her wake up and turn to her side, where he's lying on his back, his eyes still open and staring at the sealing. What is it that bothers him? He won't tell her. He won't be honest to her about it. Maybe if he was she could be too, but as it is, seems like they are both trapped in this limbo of hidden motives they cannot reveal. She hates it.

She turns towards him and kisses his chest. He looks at her and strokes her cheek tenderly. Her fingers travel down his stomach until they come across the gunshot scar on his side. It is not as obvious at first glance, it has to be touched in order to be found. Part of it is because of the tattoo that covers it.

She used to despise men with tattoos. Seen it too many times in cocky war veterans and criminals to come to associate it with them. It's a dumb prejudice of hers, she realizes; as now every time she sees the flower on Daryl's side she wants to kiss and suck on it.

She finds it odd for a man to get a tattoo to cover a gunshot wound. Especially because he hasn't gotten tattoos to cover the other many scars on his body.

"Ya like that flower, don'cha babe?" He asks in a hoarse whisper as she ducks to pass her tongue across it.

"Why did you cover this one?" She asks back.

"What?"

"This wound. Why did you hide it?" Her eyes meet his and she gulps at the intensity of his stare.

"It wasn' a cover it." She narrows her eyes at that and looks back at the ink. She's tried to guess for a while what kind of flower it is. The name is on the tip of her tongue.

"Cherokee rose…" She suddenly realizes. His soft chuckle shakes his body. "Is it for your Cherokee rose?"

"Remember I told ya I got shot fer Sophia?" She nods. "That's the wound."

"You still love her? Carol?"

"Not like that 'nymore. Maybe I've found someone else."

"A new flower to your garden?"

"It never had many."

"It has one now. And she's there to stay." She comes back up and he passes his arm across her waist, his lips pecking hers lovingly.

"Ya gorgeous magnolia a' mine. I love ya."

* * *

 _Take me to Church - Hozier_

 _I just realized today I have one more week of vacation. I came into class late and the room was completely empty. Silly me XD. And I cannot seem to concentrate in my study, goddamnit._


	25. XXV - Cain, Abel

_I love you all, dear Readers!_

* * *

 **XXV. Cain, Abel**

 _His brother and him are checking pictures of naked ladies they stole from his father. Or more like his brother is looking at them and handing him the ones he's already done with. Daryl has pouted about it just to have his brother punch him hard on the back of the head._

 _He sighs, throwing the ones he has to the floor. This is boring. He doesn't understand why his bro is so interested in them._

 _"Can we do sumthin' else?"_

 _"Like what?"_

 _"Don' know, maybe hunt fer squirrels with a shovel!"_

 _"Ya go hunt fer squirrels with a shovel an' leave me be Darleena Ballerina."_

 _"Don' call me that!" Daryl shouts clenching his small fists. His brother laughs._

 _"Or what?!" He comes very close to his face, and Daryl shrinks. The last time he tried to hit Merle he ended up with a split lip._

 _His brother's teasing is interrupted by a sudden bang on the door of the next room that tells both kids their father's home. They freeze in fear, Merle's hand quickly flying to his brother's back protectively. A few seconds of silence. Maybe he's passed out._

 _And then the roar and the heavy steps walking towards their door._

 _"Shit!" Merle's strong hands are dragging a little Daryl across the floor and shoving him into the closet._

 _"Merle..."_

 _"Shut up, lil' rascal! Ya stay 'ere, don' move, don' make a sound, understood?!" Daryl nods, tears streaming down his eyes._

 _The door in front of him closes and their father storms into the room._

 _"Where's that lil' rat a yer brotha?! Answer me!"_

 _"Or what?! What'ya gon' do, bitch?!"_

 _The shouting continues until his father punches Merle, throwing him to the floor._

 _"Ya better beg the lord fer mercy, ya son of a cocksuckin' bitch!"_

 _"I ain' gonna beg! I ain' beggin' ya! I'll never beg ya!" the teen screams._

 _And then it's down to blows thrown back and forth until his father is brutally hitting an unmoving body._

 _Little Daryl cries silently, looking through the crevice of the closet-door as his father beats Merle unconscious. His figure is now gone, but Merle is still lying there. Not a teenager anymore, but a man of around forty. Thirty-five year old Daryl tries to open the door he's hiding behind, but it's stuck. Desperate, he punches and kicks it, but it doesn't give in._

 _He hears his brother whisper from his corner._

 _"I never begged ya, not once... I ain' gonna beg ya now..." He looks at him, his face bloody and contorted with pain. "Ain' nobody but me. No one besides ya an' me. Nobody will love ya but me."_

 _"Merleee!"_

 _The door to the room opens again and a bunch of hicks break through, tommy guns in their hands aimed towards his brother._

 _Daryl's screams are drowned by the sound of bullets hitting flesh. Suddenly his brother is gone, his severed hand the only part of him laying on the dirty floor._

 _The door doesn't open and the walls close in on him as he starts losing his shit._

 _"Merle!" He cries out, but his brother is gone. "Merle! Don't leave me! Don't leave meee!"_

He wakes up with a jolt, covered in sweat, tears burning the back of his eyes. An unknown warm body is wrapped around him and he suddenly remembers who he is sleeping next to.

"Michonne…"

"Hush, baby. It's over." Her hand brushes his tears away and he just now realizes he's been crying. He puts an arm around her and presses her body against his, trying to find some comfort.

His head pounds with his name: _Merle, Merle… don't leave brother…_

"I'm sorry…"

"Shhh, it's ok." She presses her lips against his. "You have night terrors too?"

He can't see her face in the darkness, but he knows she's concerned about him.

"Haven' had 'em in a long time." He lies. She kisses him again, pressing his body against the bed.

"Want me to make you feel better?" Her lips go down his neck to his collarbone and chest. He gulps, vulnerable. "Tell me baby."

"Ya don' hafta." He tries to hide his need for comfort; for her. But his shaky voice gives him away. She kisses him tenderly and starts stroking him until he's up.

"I'll make you feel better." She travels further downwards until her mouth engulfs him and his breath catches in his throat. He forgets about Merle and his pain, there is only her in this crazy world. Her and the way she makes him feel.

She works him until he comes and when he's sated she lays her head against his chest, gently kissing it. She waits until his breathing normalizes.

„You wanna tell me? " His hand strokes her hair.

"Come 'ere." He takes her in his arms and she cuddles right next to him, her back against his chest as he tightly wraps himself around her. He kisses her shoulder and starts talking about him.

Her body in between his arms gives him comfort as years of pain and regrets flow through his memory.

Merle, that son of a bitch.

His brother, the only person he had in this world for a long time.

A messed up man, a man who cut his wings hundreds of times, who dragged him down with him, who left him every time he needed him the most.

And yet...

He was the only one who gave a shit about him during his childhood, the one who taught him most of what he knows now, the one who got in between him and his pa when the motherfucker got home drunk and wanted to punch anything that moved.

Merle's back protected him from blows, and Merle's hands taught him to get things done, and Merle's harsh words made him a man.

And when his time came to do something right for him, he failed. When he tried to save his brother, teach him a better way, make him worth something, he guided him to his destruction.

He failed miserably.

"It's not your fault, my love."

 _Yes, it is._

Merle sacrificed himself for him. He stayed behind on that mission knowing he would never come back. And the only thing Daryl found when he came with reinforcement to pick him up was his bloody severed hand lying on the floor of a dirty basement.

Finding him dead would've been better. At least it would've given him some kind of closure.

This... this doesn't tell him anything. And he is aching to know what happened.

He ends up shaking with silent sobs again, Michonne holding him tightly. He presses his lips against hers in the darkness and moves on top of her, looking for a way to forget about it. She welcomes him with open arms and moans loudly when he starts moving deep within her. He kisses her back sweetly to show her how much he loves her.

They make feral love countless times until he's finally exhausted and content. She likes him that way, she tells him. She'd do anything to keep him happy.

She doesn't have to do much. Having her here makes him happy.

"Ya won' leave me, will ya?"

"Never, my love. I promise you."

 **-o-**

She's just made a promise to him. Why? She knows she can't keep it. She knows she's deceiving him every time she tells him she's going to stay with him. Not because she doesn't want to, she does. She wants to go away with him, to give him that family he never truly had, to grow old by his side. Thing is, she doesn't deserve to be this happy.

 _You have a second chance._ Carol's voice scolds her.

 _No, I don't deserve to come back up._

 _You're gonna regret what you're doing._

 _That's the point._

Drawing lacy patterns on his back and listening to his soft breathing until she makes sure he's deeply asleep, she finally makes a decision.

As she dresses, she takes one remorseful look at his body lying on the bed, before walking out of the bedroom and exiting through the door. She walks quickly towards Morgan's house; the light on the window is still on and his sentinels must be rounding the periphery of the community, like always. She knocks on his door and a few instants later he answers.

"Hey, pretty girl."

"Morgan." She greets. "I need to ask for a favor."

* * *

 _Hey Brother - Avicii_

 _Much too much Merle and Daryl but I can't help but write about them. I love the possibilities that come from their dramatic relationship. Sibling relantionships in general inspire me a lot. I have a brother I love very much, so yeah... I don't see Merle as a villain, I see him as a very tragic figure. He's one of my favourite characters in WD._


	26. XXVI - No Rest for the Just

**XXVI. No Rest for the Just**

Morgan approaches her at their meeting place, four of his young men whose names she doesn't really remember following him.

"Tell me my fears are wrong." She pleads in a whisper, but by the man's sombre expression she can tell that's not the case.

"I'm afraid you were completely right. Noah was at the border last night. He spotted their cars at around twelve thirty." He beams to the young boy with his head and Michonne turns to him.

"Are you sure, Noah?"

"Completely sure, ma'am. We was there the whole night, we saw it. Five cars, maybe more. They came out, checked the woods an' left again. We lucky it was dark an' they didn' risk gettin' lost, else we would'a surery gotten caught spyin' on 'em." Michonne turns towards Morgan, whose expression is sorrowful.

"Goddamn." The man nods at that.

"You sayin' they ain' gonna attack the whole village?"

"No. Just my family."

"Well, they be messin' with the wrong people." He tells her with a look of determination.

"I don't wanna put your people in danger."

"You are my people, Michonne." Morgan takes a minute to evaluate the situation. "I'ma put sentinels 'round your house. Us four an' myself." He points towards the boys. "Sasha's good with the rifle, tell her to arm herself. Tyrese will come with us. An' your boyfriend…"

"He cannot know." Michonne interrupts him harshly. "He stays out of this."

"It ain't convenient, pretty girl…"

"I ain't care." Michonne's stern resolve is not to be contradicted. Morgan nods silently and gestures for his boys to leave. After making sure none of them is around he crouches and retrieves a heavy branch from the floor, dropping it aside and revealing a half-buried sack of linen. Michonne squats next to him and he opens the neck of the sack, showing her its content. She looks back at him. "Thank you again."

"What do you need 'em for?" He asks for the tenth time. She doesn't answer, just stands up again and puts two fingers on the bridge of her nose, trying to stop herself from bursting into tears again. Morgan comes to her side and pulls her into a hug. "It's gonna be ok."

She wraps his arms around him and they stay like that for a couple minutes before disentangling and making their way out of the woods. Blue eyes follow their steps, the man hidden in the shadows waiting for them to retreat.

After long minutes pass in silence he makes his way out of his hiding spot, still using the shadows of branches and leaves as camouflage in case someone remains close. He approaches the mysterious hiding place and moves the heavy branch aside, taking a look at the sack Morgan just opened moments ago. He pulls from the string that closes its neck and it opens, two medium red packages falling down.

Explosives.

Daryl's teeth clench so hard he almost breaks his own jaw. He closes the sack again and drags the tree branch over it once more. His fist punches the first tree he finds, splinters digging deep into his flesh. He lays his forehead against the bark, his eyes closed, his breath ragged with anger. He knew it all along. He knew about her dishonesty. He knew she would keep it hidden from him at any cost. Maybe cause she thinks she's protecting him; biggest jab of them all. He must make his way back before her, else she'll suspect he's been following her. His hand is now bleeding, he must find an excuse for it. He'll tell her he hurt himself chopping wood or some shit like that. He doesn't care about lying anymore. As he makes his way back to her backyard he stops dead in his tracks. She's standing right in front of him, her arms crossed, her eyes cold and hard as iron. He's been caught.

"Any luck finding rabbits?" She asks. "Squirrels? Snakes?" He doesn't answer. She swallows, looking down. "What happened to your hand?"

"Punched a tree."

"Why?"

"Cause I wanted to woman, let me be." He spits before making it back to the house. She stands in his way, her arms still crossed, her eyes harder than he's ever seen them. He holds her gaze and knows she can sense all of his pent up anger. His rage towards her. She takes a deep breath and her hands move forward towards his face. Her touch on his skin is like poison ivy. He grabs her wrists brusquely, pushing them away. Her eyes widen in shock.

There's a silent war going on in here, and none of them is willing to surrender and tell the truth to the other. What dishonest pieces of shit they both are.

"I love you." She says out of the blue. He feels the bile of repulsion in his throat. He lets go of her wrists and moves forward, not caring about pushing her. That only seems to stir her to act more fiercely. She follows his steps in long strides and puts herself in his way, her hands clinging to him like a goddamn parasite. "I love you, Daryl. I love you!" She screams.

"Let me through!"

"Say it back!" She commands. He grabs her forearms tightly, separating her from him. "Tell me that you love me too!" He pushes her against the wall, hard.

"I'm done with ya!" His scream burns his throat as it comes out. Her eyes are wide, scared, and yet strangely crushed, sort of as if she had been expecting this all along.

"Tell me you love me, Daryl. Please." She whispers with a broken voice he's almost tempted to give in for.

"I don't love ya." The words are knives stabbing his throat. She twists in his arms, as if he had shot her in the stomach. "I hate ya, ya hear me? I hate ya!"

"No! Don't lie like this, don't hurt me…"

"Hurt ya?! I'm the one hurtin' ya?! What are the explosives for?!" She stays silent. "Answer me, woman! Stop fuckin' lyin'!"

She breaks down in his arms, still holding onto him with desperation. He tries to push her away, but his will-force is now gone.

 _I hate you. I hate that I love you this much. I wish I knew how to stop myself._

"I didn't come here to hunt him down, Daryl. Please believe me." _How can I believe anything that comes out of that pretty mouth of yours?_ "He's gonna harm my family. I had no choice. I lost one son and husband already!" He stops trying to push her away and just lets her hug him. His hands fall to his sides, defeated, and his apathy towards her is even more heartbreaking than his disdain.

"Why didn' ya tell me nothin'?" He asks with passive anger. She looks at him, her eyes shot with blood.

"Cause I knew you would come here. I knew you would attempt to risk your life for me." She looks down, swallows and after a moment moves away from him, wrapping her arms around herself in self-preservation. "You're done with me. It's better off this way." She chants. "Go back to the city, Daryl. Live your life. Forget me." She turns her back to him and walks away.

"Ya promised ya'd never leave me…" He mutters lamely, like a hurt child.

"I lied!" She snaps, bewildered. "It's what women like me do! It's what cheats and scamps and hypocrites do! Remember?! You should've never come here! You should've stayed in the city! Left me alone! I'm tired of you! You and every other man in this dang world, who think you can rescue me! I don't need rescue; I need you to step out of the fucking way!" She can't even look at him in the eye as she says it. Of course not. She just wants to get rid of him.

It feels as if she's just shot a giant bullet right through his heart.

 **-o-**

He never comes back in again. She sits in the kitchen, the silence drowning her, not daring to look out the window and find him gone. Her whole body shakes with silent sobs she can't control, her eyes firmly closed and hands holding her head, raking at her dark hair with self-hatred and pain.

 _I'm sorry, my love, I'm sorry. I love you, I love you; but I can't have you here. I won't let you die for me. Go away, hate me all you want to. I'm doing this for you._

Hours pass as she sits there, crying her heart out for him, for her family, for her lost ones. A soft knock on her door tells her Sasha and Tyrese have come back. She calms herself as best as she can and opens it. The Williams Brothers eye her with shock as soon as they see her sorrowful expression.

"What did that sunufabitch do?!" Tyrese roars in a murderous tone.

"He's just too good a man for me, that's all. I sent him on his way." She answers in a dead tone.

"I don't get it." Sasha says, confused.

"You will. Tonight." Michonne gulps before giving them way. "We need to talk. Urgently." Both brothers look at each other and after a moment of hesitation enter her apartment.

 **-o-**

Here he is again. A watchman of this woman trying to prevent hell from breaking lose. A hunter stalking hunters. He won't fail her this time. Maybe he once failed Sophia, Carol and Merle. But not her. It's not too late to save her.

He wishes he was naive enough to believe in her indifference: He would leave with a broken heart, but he'd leave nonetheless. It's always easier to abandon and forget someone who never truly deserved you, someone who ditched you off because of boredom or repulsion. It's not easy at all to leave someone who broke your heart to save you from harm. The love for that person cannot mix with hatred, it just keeps on burning, sometimes even stronger, until the pain becomes unbearable. She doesn't want him here not because she doesn't love him. He knows when he looks into her eyes; he can see it. She wants to save him and that in itself is much crueler than anything she could ever do to him.

Because she doesn't want to save herself.

 _How do you expect me, love, to live with myself? How do you expect me to forget you, to go back to my old life, while you throw yourself in the flames and I am unable to stop you?_

He's told her about Merle, about Sophia. Their blood stains his hands; guilt claws his nails in his head and heart every night at the thought of his complete impotence. How can she not understand what it would mean for him to lose her too?

She thinks hell is just a gateway she's destined to trespass. The reason of her self-destruction, he doesn't know. But fate has been unkind to her desires; it's put him in her way.

 _I don't care what you think you want. I'm sorry. I love you, I respect you. I admire your strength, your stubbornness, your passion. Your scars are my scars and your wounds make my own flesh bleed, but I can't let you do this. I'm going to save you, that's final. Cause you're beautiful and you are alive and you deserve so much better, baby. You deserve to live again._

Morgan's sentinels are posted on the woods around her house so he's forced to dodge them as best as he can. He knows they'd shoot the ofay no problem in just the blink of an eye if they spotted him. He finds a tree on the way to the community and climbs it; getting a perfect sight of the path he knows they'll take cause it's the easiest route to enter through the wild. Any professional hunter would risk taking the peripheral route and lose the path, but these are gangsters. They won't risk getting lost in such dense woods, especially not near a village full of niggers.

It's almost noon when he spots the black cars in the distance. A canary whistles, unnatural enough to be human. A whistle coming from afar answers. Seconds later Daryl sees a young boy jump from a tree nearby and run in the direction of the community.

Not clever enough. The sentinel should've stayed there. Daryl recognizes the boy as Morgan's son, Duane. Guess his father doesn't want to put him in any unnecessary risk. These people are not trained to do this. They are just family protecting family. And yet they are organized as hell. How many times were they forced into this kind of situations until they developed an almost automatic system of emergency? Daryl gulps at the implications of that idea.

It takes almost half an hour until the first men start appearing through the trees. Daryl watches, careful not to move and get their attention. At first they are a small number. Five, like he presumed they'd be. He watches as they put their heads together and move down the path he predicted they would take.

Usual sloppy tactic and Morgan will surely take them down. He could help the man and make things easier for the sentinels.

He's ready to jump down the tree when he luckily takes one last look forward and what he witnesses makes him hold onto his branch and scramble back into his place. There's another group of six men making their way through the path Daryl thought they wouldn't take. The periphery, which is a lot more risky, but will take them to the community faster. This is not possible. They wouldn't risk getting lost in the woods, how would they know…?

Spies.

Of course.

Poor Morgan has spies payed by the Woodbury Gang in his community.

The sound of gunshots makes him turn his head. A standoff between the sentinels and the first group of men, but it's just a distraction. As soon as they start the other group make their way through the woods faster than deers and Daryl jumps from his tree, following them as quick and silently as possible.

Six men. He's taken six men down before.

Of course back then he was armed with two grenades. Now the only thing he has is a crossbow. It'll have to do.

He runs after their trace, their figures now out of sight. The branches crash beneath his feet and he realizes, in his haste, that the number of footmarks has decreased from six pair of feet to only five. From behind comes a rustle and he only has enough time to duck and fall to the ground as a heavy branch passes buzzing over his head. The man who threw it, one of the six, has stayed behind to take care of him. Daryl turns around on his back and kicks him on the stomach as he throws himself against him. He takes his crossbow as his attacker scrambles back.

Whoosh!

The man falls against a tree spitting blood, the arrow on his chest. He doesn't move again. Daryl gets up and keeps on running in the direction the other men took.

The shadows are growing and the trace becomes harder and harder to recognize. Ahead of him he spots a figure. Quickly he stops, charges the crossbow and shoots as soon as he can. The man falls to the floor with an arrow between his shoulder-blades and a gunshot hits very close to Daryl's head.

"Fuck ya too!" He screams as he takes cover. If it wasn't for these assholes he would've already gotten there. He swings his crossbow on his shoulder and takes out his gun. In the now increasing darkness it's difficult to differentiate the shadows of trees from the shadows of human figures. He looks back, peeking through the wildlife at the sinuous forms of the forest, trying to identify the one silhouette he's looking for. He finds it and shoots, but the figure takes cover. Another shot aimed in his direction and he starts losing his patience.

He doesn't have time for this.

Finally, the man comes out of the shadows, confident that he's killed him. Daryl takes advantage of his mistake and moves away from the tree he was using as cover, firing his weapon three times. The dark silhouette stumbles to the ground and doesn't stand again. Daryl moves forward, this time faster, heaving harder, and jumps over the body, heading towards the cottage.

Three men down.

Three more left.

 **-o-**

"I should be out there."

"Are you crazy? That's probably what they expect from you."

"I know. Still." Michonne takes a deep breath and looks over at the woman kneeling next to her, looking out the window. Her eyes are very open in alert. "Sasha?"

"Yes?" It takes a while for the words to form, but once they do they come out shaking with pain.

"I'm sorry for putting you through this." Her 'sister' swallows at that.

"Don't ever be so…"

Bang!

Gunshots start and both women duck as the crystal of a window nearby shatters. Sasha tries to aim at the source of the shooting, but her 'sister' pushes her down, shaking her head as a negative. The woman looks at her questionably; Michonne comes up to her and kisses her in the forehead.

"I love you, sister, ok?"

"I love you too."

"Stay here."

"Michonne, no!" Before her 'sister' can stop her the woman's already made her way out the back of the house, rifle up, spotting the man who's just begun to shoot at the house.

Bang!

The man tries to take cover but she's faster.

Bang!

He falls backwards and she runs towards the side of the house. It cannot be more than one; the gunshots of the standoff between Morgan and the rest of the attackers are still going on. As soon as she rounds the house, however, she realizes she was dead wrong. The back of a shotgun hits her head so hard she's sure she can hear her skull crack in two. The pain is so strong she's unable to think of anything as she falls down to the floor. A pair of arms hold her up and immobilize her; not that she's posing any resistance. She can feel the trail of blood go down her forehead straight to her left eye.

 _I'm dead now._ She thinks resigned.

"You're lucky Philip wants you alive, lil' bitch." The man behind her whispers in her ear. He nudges his nose against her neck, inhaling her scent. "Your family in there? Not so much." He cackles and she widens.

 _My family… Sasha, her child, Mila…_

"No!" She throws her head back, crashing it against the other man and yelps in pain as the impact makes it hurt ten times more. The man loosens his grasp on her for one second and curses, but then his knee meets her ribs and she loses consciousness, her mind a hurricane of horrible memories and even worse fears.

 **-o-**

The man in front of him is breaking in through the window. Daryl loses sight of him before he can shoot, but inside the house hears the war of gunshots. It stops with the hick screaming in pain. Either Sasha or Michonne hit him, but it's not over yet, Daryl can tell. He moves quickly, bent on following the man, but as he crouches against the wall of the house and over the window, he suddenly spots a pair of dark eyes watching him through a crevice between the floor and the house. They are looking directly at him, wide and scared and stained with dark tears.

The children.

 _The shooting went on the entire night while we were hiding in the basement..._

Daryl swallows hard, holding the gaze of the little boy and puts a finger against his lips, signaling for him to stay quiet. Silent, he crawls onto his belly until he's able to slide down the house and into the small room made mostly of a hole in the ground. This house's basement. Mila and Roger are waiting for him down there. The boy's arms around his cousin are so tight he might as well be choking her. His eyes are wide with fear and teary.

He remembers.

Daryl puts a hand on his head, trying to calm him, then touches Mila's shoulder. The girl is trying her best to stay calm and in her features hard as stone Daryl can see the same strength he sees in Michonne and Sasha. He lifts his head and notices the small door-trap over his head. Steps resonate above them and Mila and Roger sink in their places, snuggled against each other.

The steps are erratic, as if the man was missing one leg. Good tactic, but Michonne would've gone straight to the head. This shot must've come from Sasha. Daryl can surprise the motherfucker easily. He disentangles his crossbow and it makes noise. He curses himself silently as the figure stops right above him and through the cracks of the floor manages to aim the weapon at his face looking straight in his direction. _Stay there, looking at me_. The figure above them doesn't. He turns away and takes a step straight in direction to the kitchen.

In Sasha's direction.

 _Sasha's boy was four; he had been in his daddy's praxis by the time the mob got him, hiding under the desk. He saw them take Bob; hasn't been able to speak ever since._

"Mommy!" Roger screams all of a sudden, wrenching free from Mila's arms and running towards the door-trap.

"Roger, no!" Mila screams too late and Daryl only registers how the figure above them turns towards the floor once more, shotgun aimed at them.

Bang!

Bang! Bang!

His body reacts on his own, throwing himself like a shield over both children, pushing them against the floor. Roger starts screaming uncontrollably and before the figure follows his voice once more...

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

The deaf sound of a body falling against the floor makes him look up. The figure above them is down and blood starts trickling down the cracks, falling on them. Sasha starts calling for her boy. Daryl lets go of Mila and turns towards Roger, who's still crying his heart out. He takes his face in his hands and forces him to stop looking at the blood seeping through the sealing.

"It's ok, lil' boy. Don't look; look at me, at my eyes." He whispers, trying to calm him down. "I'm here with ya. I'm always here with ya." Roger throws his arms around him and Daryl answers to his hug with a stronger one. Mila's also crying on his shoulder, clutching his arm tightly with her delicate hand. Above they can hear Sasha pushing the body away from the trap-door.

A memory comes back like a Tornado as he hears himself repeating his brother's chant.

 _"It's ok, lil' rascal. Don't look at that; look at me, at my eyes. I'm here with ya. Always." He's there again, clutching his little brother against his chest as they both hide inside the closet, waiting for their father to finish beating their mother._

 _"Merle…" little Daryl cries. "Don' leave me, brother."_

"Roger! Roger!" The trap-door opens and Sasha scrambles down, looking for her boy. "Roger!"

She snatches her son from his arms and looks him up and down, desperate. The stains of blood covering the child seem to drive her into a frenzy.

"He's alright. It's not his." Daryl says, calming her. She turns to look at him.

"Thank you." She yelps at the border of tears. Daryl just nods.

"Michonne… where is she?"

"Out there. I couldn't stop her." _No one can ever stop her._ Daryl knows he should've focused on protecting her, but the children were there and maybe if he hadn't gotten down here they would now be… He gets out of the door-trap, followed by the family. He takes Sasha's rifle abandoned on the floor and moves out the back of the house. Behind him the woman gives instructions to her niece. "Mila, take Roger to Jackie's house. I'm going with Daryl."

"No Sasha, ya stay 'ere!" The man commands, making her stop.

"She's my blood sister!"

"Yer boy needs his mother! It's what she'd want!" Sasha widens and looks back and Mila and Roger. Swallowing hard she nods. "Hide down there, we don' come again ya people run outta here. Understood?"

Daryl makes his way out of the house, cleaning the blood off his face with the back of his hand.

* * *

 _Ultraviolence - Lana del Rey_


	27. XXVII - Black Wolves & a Magnolia

**XXVII. Black Wolves and a Magnolia**

The impact against the hard ground brings her back to her senses. Her ribs burn and her head is begging for a bullet to end its pain.

"Yer awake? Good." The man standing over her says with a cackle. She can barely move, she only knows she has to get out of here. Go back before Sasha and the children, the last family she has left, goes forever. "We'll wait a lil' bit fer the others. In the meantime… I oughta have a lil' fun with ya." He squats on the ground, turning her around, and she spits blood in his face. As he's cleaning it she moves forward, ready to punch him, just to discover her hands are tied behind her back. The man laughs at her efforts and punches her across the face. "Tough bitch, ain'cha? This is gonna be fun." His hands yank from her shirt, tearing it open as the buttons fly everywhere. She wriggles underneath, desperate to escape him, when a crack nearby catches the man's attention. He gets up, shotgun to the front, one foot pressing her hurt torso to keep her still. "Ok asshole! Ya stop followin' us right now or I'll kill her!"

 _You won't. You would've already._

Michonne takes a deep breath and with all her strength swings her legs up, kicking the man on his behind and throwing him to the ground away from her.

"Ah! You b…"

Swoosh!

The arrow pierces the back of the hick's head as he tries to get up; it comes out through his eye. He plummets to the ground and she turns to Daryl, who's running towards her, crossbow in hand. He takes out his knife and cuts the ties of her hands. The woman's face is contorted with panic and she moves away from his grasp, running to the body and picking up the revolver.

"My family!" He runs after and stops her. She struggles in his grasp.

"Sasha an' the children are fine, 'Chonne. I just came from there." She looks up at him.

"Really?"

"Yeah." Just then she notices the small spots of blood on his face and left shoulder. The pattern is so strange it is not possible the blood is his. _Enemy blood. He saved them._ Operating only by instinct, she throws herself at him, her arms tight around his neck.

"Thank you." She whispers.

She expects him to push her away like a few hours ago or maybe to not respond at all and stand there awkwardly until she lets go. What she definitely doesn't expect is him to hug her back. His arms stretch around her, giving her the comfort she needs, and she indulges in it, letting out the air in her chest. She can feel the rapid beating of his heart against her and the way his hands travel through her back, as if he was taking in as much from her as he could at this moment.

 _Never let me go, my love._

She opens her eyes at the sound of gunshots in the distance.

 _No. I can't. I'm sorry._

She moves away, forceful, and turns in the direction the sounds of the stand-off are coming from.

"Where ya goin'?" He asks behind her.

She shouldn't answer. She knows it'll only make him want to stop her. But she's tired of hiding things from him.

"The fuckers are gonna pay for almost killing them." She retorts.

"Yer not goin' out there."

 _Watch me._

"You don't tell me what to do!" She answers without facing him.

"This is what they want! They want ya outside so they can corner ya!" In three long steps he's reached her and yanked at her arm, stopping her. She tries to wriggle free, but his grasp is strong. "Michonne! STOP!"

The gun is still on her hand and she winces, hating herself for having to do this. It's the last strategy she has under her sleeve to make this boneheaded man turn around and leave her be.

"Let go of me!" Her arm shoots up, pushing the revolver against his head. He takes a step back, looking into her eyes. They're hard as a stone, but in her hand the weapon trembles.

"Put that gun down, it ain' funny."

"It's not supposed to be! I'm not joking! Right now you are being a nuisance, Dixon. I get rid of nuisances, no matter who or what they are. You know that."

He looks at her in pain.

"Pull the trigger then, ya'll be doin' me a favor!" It would be easier if she could just shoot. It would mean she doesn't love him. But just as she's suspected, she can't. The revolver trembles fiercely against his temple for a couple seconds, before Michonne lets it fall, her face twisting in pain.

"What is it gonna take for you to leave?!" She asks, snapping at him. "I don't want you here, Daryl!"

"Why?" He asks, stubbornly. She sighs in frustration. "Why?!"

"Because I love you!" She says painfully. "I protect the people I love!"

She twists her hand free once more and starts walking, her arms wrapped around her tightly. Behind her he's still following. _Stop, Daryl. Just stop._

"Hey… Stop." Once he reaches her again he grabs her face and kisses her, full of rage and despair. She fights him at first but then gives into his touch. The kiss is awful, violent and bloody like revenge. He pulls away, his forehead touching hers, his fist tight in her locks. She can feel her hand on the back of his head, pulling hard from his hair. "Listen, I know yer not runnin' off. I understand why yer doing this but that trail's gone cold, baby. Come back with me, forget him."

 _I wish I could..._

"It's not that simple…" She answers, shaking her head slightly. His eyes are firmly set on her, stubborn as hell.

"Come back with me. Forget him." He repeats slowly, as if she hadn't understood his words. She hates it when someone patronizes her that way. "It _is_ that simple, Chonne."

 _You don't get it._

She swallows hard and pushes him away, putting two fingers on the bridge of her nose.

"He killed Andrea. He killed Miles. He killed lots of innocent people. He needs to be stopped."

"It's not yer responsibility…"

"Yes it is. There's no one else to do it but me." He huffs impatiently, as if he thought what she just said was bullshit. She clenches her jaw at that. "I lost my family for a reason, Daryl. That was the sign I needed, I had to understand. People like me have a destiny."

"Yer wrong."

"No."

"Yes."

"No, I wish I was! All those people living life happily in their homes, they get a chance to sleep at night and rise another morning only because they know there's some unhappy bastard out there killing the black wolves for them!" A hunter like her, who has nothing left to lose. Who takes every brick thrown her way and turns it into a fortress of hate. "If Philip dies Andrea won't come back. But maybe another young woman will get the chance to prevent the mistake she made and she will get to live and fall in love with a good man and have children. And my mission will have succeeded."

"And what happens when another black wolf appears? Will ya hunt him down too?" She smiles sweet and sadly at that. He doesn't understand.

"This is my last hunt, Daryl. I know it. Somehow I know I won't come out of this alive."

He looks at her through widened eyes.

"It don' have to be this way!" She tries to evade those supplicating baby blues, but he doesn't give her a chance. "Michonne, look at me." He takes her face in his hands again. "We're the same person split in two. Yer scars are my scars and I know what hides underneath, so I know what I'm tellin' ya…"

"You don't."

"I do!"

"No, Daryl! You don't! Have you ever lost a son?! Have you ever held your baby's dead broken body in your hands?!"

He stays silent at that.

 _No, you haven't. And I hope you never, ever have to. A son is part of a mother; she shouldn't let him die. It should've been me, not him. I don't deserve this life, I don't deserve to come back up._

Daryl is still looking into her eyes, trying to find a reason to stop her. She knows he doesn't have to. His company itself is the only temptation that has worked on her for years. She's made promises to him, she's asked him for so much, she's given him so much; she's been so happy by his side despite the short amount of time she's known him… this is love, isn't it? There's no question. She's utterly and completely out of control when it comes to him. That's how much she loves him.

Never in her life has she felt something like this.

Is Daryl the flower that grows on the charred ground after a big fire? Is he that peck of light amongst the darkness? The magnolia amongst the bad weeds? The last hope among this hopelessness?

"Come back with me. We'll have a life together, a family… I'll give ya another son, we'll raise it together. We'll put it all behind, all this stinkin' pile of shit that is our past. We'll start over."

"Start over…" She smiles at that, tears in her eyes. Start over, how sweet that sounds; how happy she would be by his side. Too happy, in fact. "I can't… I couldn't live with myself…"

He kisses her, drowning her words, and that fortress of hate built for years over a painful memory crumbles to the ground immediately. She holds onto him, kissing him back sweetly, giving in.

 _Take me home, my love._ _Never let me go._

His body freezes against hers all of a sudden and she opens her eyes, moving away before…

Bang!

Daryl takes her in his arms and turns them around, shielding her with his body. A scream of pain; both fall to the ground and Michonne turns to him, her neck splashed bloody. But the blood is not hers.

"No!" She screams at what she sees. "You son of a…" She puts up her revolver and shoots at the man in front of her. Once, twice, thrice. He falls to the ground and she moves on top of her boyfriend. "Daryl! Baby!" He's curled against himself, his face contorted in pain and a hand clutching near his clavicle, getting damper and damper with red, warm blood.

"Holy shit!" She recognizes Tyrese's voice behind her and the sound of five sets of boots coming their way. Her 'brother' is the first to arrive, tearing from his sleeve and moving Daryl's hand away forcefully. The gunshot pierced near his clavicle and it most certainly perforated an artery, cause the blood is emanating violently. Tyrese ties the rag against it.

"Baby?!" Michonne cries as she helps her 'brother' tighten the knot. "Stay with me! Please!" She takes his face with her hands, staining it with his blood. "He's losing too much blood, Morgan, we need to do something!"

Tyrese tries to move him, but Daryl screams in pain.

"Careful!" Morgan yells. "We need to take him back between all of us. Noah, go get a doctor, quick!" The boy goes running.

"It's just my shoulder…" Daryl heaves. "I'm… I'm okay…" His voice grows weaker as he says it and Michonne widens.

 _No. No, no, not you! Not you!_

"Daryl!" She cries, holding onto him. "Daryl no! Baby, stay awake! I love you! Please stay awake! Don't leave me! Daryl!"

 _Don't leave me, baby…_

He smiles at her, his eyes growing glazed.

"I won't."

* * *

 _Esmerelda - Ben Howard_

 _That hateful moment in which your cruel author leaves you with this cliff-hanger until next month because she needs to concentrate on her finals. I know, I'm awful. Luckily for me, all of you who wanna shoot me right now don't know my address! Muahahahahahahahahahaha_

 _Seriously, though, I'm sorry for this, but I really need to start studying right now, those finals are gonna kick my lily ass if I don't._


	28. XXVIII - Death & the Devil

**XXVIII. Death & the Devil  
**

She remembers when Morgan taught her to drive. They used to go to that precipice a few miles away from the community. The Devil's Mouth they called it, because it was wide and it looked at you mischievously, hoping you would fall down so it could swallow you. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, among the silence, you could almost hear it laughing. Relishing in the memories of careless drivers who were once swallowed and crashed against the devil's teeth.

Back in the days her and Morgan were reckless teenagers, the Devil's Mouth was their favorite place to go. It would be the perfect desolated place for them to make out, but that was just one of the reasons they liked it. The other, perhaps her favorite, was because driving in the precipice's direction, pulling over right before falling down, reminded them they were alive. Back then it seemed like they were cheating death. Little did they know death had decided to wait for them a little longer and that it was a matter of luck more than skill that the breaks of the car would always work, or that they wouldn't forget one number in the countdown and get it horrendously wrong.

Oh, yes, they developed a countdown to prevent the Devil from swallowing them. There's no sign to tell when the slope is coming. There's just an old, crooked tree on the way and whoever knows the path well enough knows to stop at it and turn around. Not them, though. As soon as they passed the crooked branches of the tree they would start counting.

 _At the count of four, you stop if you're going too fast._

 _If you're feeling lucky that day you can count to seven. If you reach eight you're a dead man._

 _One, two, three, four; stop now…_

 _Five, six, seven… there goes forever._

Death and the devil have been waiting for her a long time.

"He's steady." Jackie comments, coming out of the room, cleaning her hands with a towel. Michonne is sitting in the kitchen, her head bandaged. Next to her is Morgan. He's the first to answer.

"Good." He walks towards Jackie and puts a hand on her shoulder, making her look at him. "You don't know anything. Understood?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks Jackie." Michonne tells the lady and she smiles in her direction.

"Wanna come in and see him? He's unconscious still." She nods at that and gets up, still cringing from the pain.

"He's gonna be fine, Chonne. He's lucky. Tyrese, the kids, they're all fine." Somehow that notion doesn't calm her like it was intended to.

"I've put you all in danger." She answers, burning with self-hatred. "I didn't know he would…" She stops. "If I had known I would've never come here."

"We're just glad you're safe." Sasha comments from the other side of the room. Resting his head on her legs is her little boy. Mila and Tyrese are sitting with them, the girl wrapped into her father's arms.

"If they had killed my cousins…"

"They didn't. You saw to that." Tyrese interrupts her. "We're glad you're safe."

She moves away and Morgan follows her, sensing something is terribly wrong here.

"I'm going to kill him." She tells him.

"Michonne…"

"He said he wanted to finish the war. He was wrong. He's just started it, and I'm gonna make him pay for everything he's done."

Not a second passes before Sasha and Tyrese leave their children resting on the couch and come to join them.

"What kind of mess did you get yourself into this time?" Her 'brother' asks her. Michonne turns to him, evaluating her next words.

"There was a Gangster I was investigating back at the city. He killed a friend of mine. I didn't come here to track him; it wasn't my purpose. But it seems he's got his eye on me. I knew he was hiding somewhere in the South, but I didn't think it would be this close." A pause. "He's gonna kill me." Sasha gasps and Tyrese's fist closes. "Unless I find him first."

"And once you find him, what then?"

"He's untouchable here. I'll take matters into my own hands."

"Michonne, I won't let you do that…" Morgan intervenes.

"You can't stop me. Not this time." The silence lingers around them once more.

"I thought you'd left this behind already, pretty girl." The man's words come out fast and sad.

"He almost kills Daryl. I don't give a shit anymore. I care more about him and you than I do about myself. And this won't end until one of us is dead."

 **-o-**

The two young sentinels come back just a few hours later, bringing the bad news with them.

"They're waiting out there. Ready to ambush whoever comes out to the open road." _They suppose I'm gonna run for it._ She thinks. "They have lost numbers, but still, three men in a car is a pretty high bet for one person."

Not for her, it isn't.

"We don't have much time. Their friends take too long, they'll wonder what happened." She comments.

"If they come in here, we can take them." Morgan retorts, but Michonne shoots him a dangerous look.

"One more shooting and this community will be burnt to the ground, Morgan. Remember Atlanta? No. They're looking for me, not for your people. Keep everyone inside and I'll make my way out."

A cutting silence lingers in the atmosphere. Morgan throws a look at his henchmen and they take a few steps back, giving him and Michonne a little privacy.

"You got the explosives?" Michonne turns to the man, scowling.

"I won't need them. I have a plan." The silence is even more asphyxiating this time. When Morgan finally gets the meaning behind her words he looks at her as if she was completely crazy.

"The Devil's Mouth…?"

"The Devil's Mouth."

"I don't like that."

"Oh, you used to love it." She gives him a sad smile he doesn't give back. He doesn't attempt to stop her either.

"Count to four, no more. Luck may play dirty this time."

 _Did luck ever play fair?_

Sasha and Tyrese come by her side. She doesn't need to say anything; they already know she's planning to do something reckless.

She's told them to leave the community and move to the North. This place is no longer safe for them and to her luck, this time Morgan and the siblings themselves agree with her. She gives them Rick's contact and the address of her apartment, so they can have a place to live in while they figure things out in the city.

"I wish you were telling me this is all a stupid joke to convince us to move North with you." Sasha comments.

"That's a brilliant idea, why didn't I think of it?"

"Don't fuck around like that!" Her sister grimaces at her very dark joke.

"If I don't make it…" Michonne starts softly, "I want you guys to do it for me. I love you." She hugs and kisses both of them. Tyrese's eyes are dark when she turns towards him. "I need you to convince Daryl not to come after me."

"How are we gonna do that?" The man whispers back.

"Tell him…" She stops. _No, not that. It's gonna scar him forever._ She has to go along with it. "Tell him I'm dead. Tell him I went headlong down that steep; tell him you never found me. Convince him to go back."

Tyrese's eyes widen like plates. It's a good way of disappearing. The Devil's Mouth has swallowed many a careless driver before.

"It's gonna break his heart, Chonne." _I know._

She turns away from him, incapable of meeting his eyes.

 **-o-**

His ribcage rises and falls to the pace of his deep breathing. His skin is warm and soft; sticky from the weather. He smells like home. Like her long and lost dreams. As she lays next to him, her head against his chest, she relishes in each and every memory of these last months. How much his presence has bettered everything in her formerly grim life.

 _Gorgeous magnolia a' mine._

He once told her that she was his blessing. He seemed so happy a woman like her would be capable of loving him. Little did he know she would cause him this much pain.

Or maybe he knew, and he was willing to stand it.

She did warn him in time after all.

 _You don't have to do this. Just go back with him._ Says little voice inside her head; she forces herself to ignore it.

 _That's not possible anymore. Philip's gonna hunt me; find me. Find the people I love and harm them again. Somehow._

Andrea died for this; that man Milton; Daryl got shot. She's no longer fighting for a cause, this is personal.

Under her, Daryl shudders in his sleep. Her head shoots up, her eyes on him. She comes closer to kiss his head. It's her time to go.

"You being here like this is my fault and I'm sorry." She whispers against his skin. "But I warned you first: I told you to stay in the city, to get away while you still could, to let me handle this… you didn't listen. You never listen to warnings. You thought you knew what you were getting into and you didn't. This… right now… will teach you a lesson. And I'm sorry it has to be like this, I'm sorry I hurt you. But that's the way of the world, isn't it? If you hate me from now on I wouldn't blame you. But you need to know something; something that's true, something you should never put into question: that I love you. I love you with all my heart Daryl Dixon."

 **-o-**

"Father Gabriel… remember him?" Morgan asks when she gets out of the house. He's propped next to the door, smoking a cigarette, looking into the distance with that sad look she's always loved in men. What is it about sad men?

"Drunken priest who stored alcohol in his church's attic during prohibition?" Michonne recalls, unsure. Morgan nods.

"The same." He hands her a small folded note. "Look for him, he may be able to help you."

She takes it and stuffs it inside her pocket. She takes one last look at the home of her childhood. The unpainted walls, the wooden door, the earth streets and small lanterns swaying in the wind. She takes one last look at Morgan.

"Goodbye."

He smiles at her. She goes down the steps and gets into the cars. The lights of the small town fade into the distance along with memories of her past. She braces herself for the race.

 **-o-**

They've been chasing her for over ten minutes when she finally spots the road that leads to the Devil's Mouth. She takes a violent turn and her engine complains. She's managed to shoot their lights down but they're still following hers.

The road starts getting bumpier. Any time now, any time.

The tree passes right in front of her, she starts counting.

 _One… two… three… four… stop now…_

They don't. Neither does she.

She jambs in the accelerator, opens the door and jumps out of the car. The contact of her face and body with the ground is hard and she rolls a couple meters, still counting.

 _Five… six… seven..._

There it goes forever. She hears the engine scream as the driver tries, too late, to stop the car before it plummets downhill. She never hears the crash, just the silence of the night. The silence of death's whisper and the devil's laughter coming for them; for all of them.

Her body is burning with scratches and a stone is stabbing her spine, but she doesn't move. She lays there on the ground, looking at the starlit sky. In silence.

* * *

 _A/N: Sorry sorry sorry! My lovelies it's almost been a year over here! I feel terrible! But to be honest my heart betrayed me by making me a sucker for corgan and I couldn't focus on my dixonne for a very long time. But hey, I'm back. Mainly because this story is so exciting to write and I have outlined such an interesting plot it would be a tragedy to abandon it. And because I WILL FINISH WHAT I STARTED OR DIE TRYING GODDAMNIT!_

 _To those of you who are still faithful to this story I send you all my love. And also to all of my richonners out there who still are willing to give this ship a chance despite it not being canon. Love love love yaaaa!_

 _Love is Blindness - U2_


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